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Contrast  in  Shakespeare's 
Historical  Plays 


BROTHER  LEO 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2007  with  funding  from 


A  DISSERTATION 

Submitted  to  the  Faculty  of  Letters  of  the  Catholic 

University  of  America  in  Partial  Fulfillment 

of  the  Requirements  for  the  Degree 

of  Doctor  of  Letters 


.Vashingtox,  D, 
1915 


http://www.archive.org/details/contrastinshakesOOmeehrich 


'  ^  h 


'"  ■)  ■'-■ft    "^'\  ^^\?imnA'' 


Contrast  in  Shakespeare's 
Historical  Plays 


BY 

BROTHER  LEO 


A  DISSERTATION 

Submitted  to  the  Faculty  of  Letters  of  the  Catholic 

University  of  America  in  Partial  Fulfillment 

of  the  Requirements  for  the  Degree 

of  Doctor  of  Letters 


Washington,  D.  C. 
1915 


Copyright  1915 

BY 

Brother  Leo 


National  Capital  Press,  Inc. 

Book  Manufacturers 

Washington,  D.  C. 


This  dissertation  is  an  investigation  of  Shakespeare's  English 
Historical  Plays  in  an  effort  to  discover  to  what  extent  the  dram- 
atist shaped  his  materials  according  to  the  principles  of  dramatic 
contrast.  The  last  ten  chapters  contain  the  detailed  study  and 
the  results  thereof.  The  second  chapter  is  an  attempt  to  amplify 
the  theory  of  dramatic  contrast  as  set  forth  by  Mr.  Hamilton 
and  to  test  its  applicability  to  typical  plays  of  the  past  and  of  the 
present.  Since  the  theory  of  contrast  cannot  be  rightly  estimated 
without  some  consideration  of  other  theories  of  the  drama,  there 
is  presented  in  the  first  chapter  a  brief  survey  of  the  theory  of  the 
so-called  "classical"  unities,  and  of  the  theories  of  dramatic 
construction  identified  with  Freytag,  Brunetiere,  and  Mr.  Archer. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  Theories  of  the  Drama 7 

II.  The  Element  of  Contrast SO 

III.  The  English  Historical  Plays 42 

IV.  The  Three  Plays  of  King  Henry  VI 45 

V.  King  Richard  II 59 

VI.  King  Richard  III 68 

VII.  King  John 75 

VIII.  The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  IV 82 

IX.  The  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  IV 89 

X.  King  Henry  V 98 

XI.  King  Henry  VIII 105 

XII.  Summary  and  Conclusion * Ill 

Bibliographies 114 


1. 

THEORIES  OF  THE  DRAMA 

The  oflBce  of  the  dramatist  is  to  construct  plays;  the  office  of 
the  critic  of  the  drama  is  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  dramatist, 
to  observe  his  work,  to  classify  his  technical  devices,  to  compare 
him  with  his  predecessors  in  the  field  of  playwriting,  and  to  seek 
to  find  and  to  formulate  the  principles  upon  which  the  art  of  play 
construction  is  based.  From  another  point  of  view,  it  is  a  part 
of  the  critic's  duty  to  test  the  worth  of  a  given  drama  by  comparing 
it  with  the  human  life  it  tacitly  professes  to  depict;  to  examine  it 
in  the  light  of  the  artistic  principles  of  the  true,  the  good,  the 
beautiful;  to  strive,  tentatively  at  least,  to  assign  it  a  rank  among 
productions  of  its  genre  and  to  set  forth  his  reasons  for  so  assigning 
it :  But  with  those  functions  of  criticism  we  are  not  here  concerned. 
Our  purpose  is  rather  to  investigate  some  of  the  more  formal 
aspects  of  the  theory  of  the  drama. 

More  or  less  consciously  and  explicitly  every  critic,  every  student, 
every  member  of  an  audience  must  ask  himself  such  questions  as: 
What  is  it  that  makes  a  play  a  play  ?  Is  this,  in  the  correct  sense 
of  the  word,  a  drama?  What  constitutes  the  grounds  of  its  appeal 
to  me — or  its  lack  of  appeal?  Is  this  truly  a  play,  and  not  a 
narrative  poem,  or  a  series  of  illustrations  for  a  novel,  or  a  sermon 
in  disguise?  Are  its  subject  matter  and  its  manner  of  treatment 
suitable  for  stage  presentation?  Intelligent  and  illuminating 
answers  to  these  and  similar  questions  depend  entirely  upon 
the  critic's  answer  to  one  basic  question  which  implies  them  all. 
That  fundamental  question  is :  What  is  the  underlying  and  essential 
constituent  of  the  dramatic? 

The  history  of  dramatic  criticism  is  the  record  of  answers  made 
by  critics  to  that  searching  and  all-embracing  question.  Some 
of  those  critics  have  been  more  dogmatic  than  others,  some  have 
been  inductive  in  their  method  and  limited  in  their  scope,  some 
have  devised  definitions  of  the  drama  singularly  lacking  in  either 
definiteness  or  plasticity.  Each  of  them  lived  in  his  own  day,  was 
influenced  by  a  distinct  set  of  precedents,  saw  in  the  theater  a 
definite  type  of  play,  wrote  for  readers  of  a  given  grade  of  apprecia- 
tion; to  that  extent  they  differed  each  from  each.  But  in  at  least 
one  respect  they  met  on  common  ground.     They  agreed  in  recog- 

7 


8       ''•'-.*    *  •  coi^;'TRAST  m  Shakespeare's 

nizing  the  need  of  some  fundamental  principle  in  the  drama,  a 
vivifying  and  distinctive  constituent  that  distinguishes  the  play 
from  the  dramatic  poem,  from  the  novel,  from  the  epic,  from  the 
romance.  Though  they  were  not  always  at  one  in  their  conclu- 
sions, they  were  at  one  in  their  endeavor  to  answer  the  question: 
What  is  the  underlying  and  essential  constituent  of  the  dramatic? 

One  such  endeavor  that  for  centuries  served  to  explain  the 
properties  of  the  drama  and  that  exercised  immeasurable  sway 
over  generations  of  playwrights  and  critics,  is  embodied  in  the 
theory  of  the  so-called  "Classical  Unities."  This  theory,  as  it 
now  comes  to  us,  holds  that  the  basis  of  the  drama  is  a  trinity  of 
unities.  First,  there  is  the  unity  of  time,  which  requires  that  all 
the  events  of  the  play  take  place  in  the  course  of  a  single  day; 
secondly,  there  is  the  unity  of  place,  which  requires  that  the  scene 
or  location  of  the  play  remain  unchanged;  thirdly,  there  is  the 
unity  of  action,  which  requires  that  the  play  concern  itself  with  the 
representation  of  but  one  set  of  events. 

The  theory  of  the  unities  was  dubbed  "classical"  because  it  was 
held  to  inhere  in  the  drama  of  Greece  and  to  have  been  first  set 
forth  by  Aristotle.  There  is  more  justification  for  the  former  of 
these  statements  than  for  the  latter.  While  it  is  possible  for  us 
to  point  to  instances  in  the  Attic  plays — the  Agamemnon  of 
^schylus  and  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  for  instance — where  at 
least  one  of  the  unities  is  violated,  the  fact  remains  that  the  Greek 
drama  as  a  whole  conforms  to  the  dictates  of  the  unities.  But  the 
statement  that  the  theory  of  the  three  unities  was  enunciated  by 
Aristotle  is  today  discredited.     The  facts,  briefly,  are  as  follows. 

Aristotle  did  clearly  and  specifically  set  forth  the  unity  of 
action.  In  the  sixth  chapter  of  the  Poetics  we  read:  "Every 
tragedy  has  scenic  apparatus,  manners,  and  a  fable,  and,  in  a 
similar  manner,  sentiment.  But  the  greatest  of  these  is  the  combi- 
nation of  incidents.  Men  are  persons  of  a  certain  character, 
according  to  their  manners;  but  according  to  their  actions,  they 
are  happy  or  the  contrary.  The  end  of  tragedy,  therefore,  does 
not  consist  in  imitating  manners,  but  it  embraces  manners  on 
account  of  actions;  so  that  the  action  and  the  fable  are  the  end 
of  tragedy.  But  the  end  is  the  greatest  of  all  things.  Moreover, 
without  action,  tragedy  cannot  exist;  but  it  may  exist  without 
manners.  .  .  .  The  fable,  therefore,  is  the  principal  part,  and 
as  it  were  the  soul  of  tragedy."     And  in  the  seventh  chapter,  on 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  9 

the  unity  of  the  fable,  we  read:  "It  is  requisite,  therefore,  that  as 
in  other  imitative  arts  one  imitation  is  the  imitation  of  one  thing, 
thus  also,  the  fable,  since  it  is  an  imitation  of  action,  should  be  the 
imitation  of  one  action,  and  of  the  whole  of  this,  and  that  the  parts 
of  the  transactions  should  be  so  arranged,  that  any  one  of  them 
being  transposed  or  taken  away,  the  whole  would  become  different 
and  changed.  For  that  which  when  present  or  not  present  pro- 
duces no  sensible  difference,  is  not  a  part  of  the  fable.'* 

Here  we  have  enunciated  the  theory  of  the  unity  of  action,  a 
theory  that  almost  up  to  our  own  day  has  been  accepted  as  forming 
the  basis  of  intelligent  and  constructive  dramatic  criticism.  In 
practice,  at  least,  succeeding  dramatists  did  not  always  agree  with 
Aristotle  in  laying  the  principal  emphasis  on  action  or  plot  and 
making  the  characters  subordinate  and  even  incidental — certainly 
Moliere  did  not  in  his  comedies  of  manners  like  Tartuffe  and 
Le  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme — but  critics  have  been  all  but  unanimous 
in  accepting  the  unity  of  action  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  a  postulate 
essential  to  any  well  ordered  and  well  advised  appreciation  of  any 
sort  of  dramatic  offering. 

But  what  of  the  other  unities,  those  of  time  and  place?  They 
were  "educed*'  from  the  Poetics  by  writers  on  the  drama  in  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  One  of  Aristotle's  apparently 
casual  statements  of  fact — that  tragedy  endeavors  as  far  as  possible 
to  confine  itself  to  a  single  revolution  of  the  sun  {Poetics y  chap,  v) — 
was  elaborated  into  a  rule  by  certain  Italian  critics.  Giraldi 
Cinthio  (1504-1573)  held  that  the  action  of  a  play  should  not 
extend  over  a  greater  period  than  twenty-four  hours,  Francesco 
RoborteUi  (1516-1567)  reduced  Cinthio's  time  limit  by  one  half, 
and  Gian-Giorgio  Trissino  (1478-1550)  held  the  unity  of  time  to 
be  accepted  by  all  save  unlearned  writers. 

Learned  writers  were  supposed  to  be  aware  that  the  unity  of 
time  was  observed  in  the  Greek  drama.  For  the  most  part  it 
was;  perhaps,  as  Lessing  suggests,^  because  the  members  of  the 
chorus  who  impersonated  Athenian  citizens  or  Argive  maidens 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  remain  out  of  their  houses  for  more 
than  several  consecutive  hours;  but  there  are  several  instances 
where  the  time  represented  in  a  Greek  play  occupies  more  than  a 
single  revolution  of  the  sun.     As  Butcher  points  out: 


Hamburgische  Dramaturgie. 


10  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE' S 

**In  the  Eumenides  months  or  years  elapse  between  the  opening 
of  the  play  and  the  next  scene.  The  Trachiniae  of  Sophocles 
and  the  Supplices  of  Euripides  afford  other  and  striking  instances 
of  the  violation  of  the  so-called  rule.  In  the  Agamemnon,  even 
if  a  definite  interval  of  days  cannot  be  assumed  between  the  fire- 
signals  announcing  the  fall  of  Troy  and  the  return  of  Agamemnon, 
at  any  rate  the  conditions  of  time  are  disregarded  and  the  march 
of  events  is  imaginatively  accelerated.*'^ 

The  unity  of  place  was  first  suggested  by  Joseph  Caesar  Scaliger 
(1484-1558).  The  most  doughty  champion  of  the  unities  in  Italy 
was  Lodovico  Castelvetro  (1505-1571),  who,  in  his  commentary 
on  the  Poetics  of  Aristotle  (1561),  not  only  insists  upon  the  neces- 
sity of  the  unity  of  time  and  the  unity  of  place,  but  even  subordi- 
nates to  them  the  unity  of  action.  All  three  unities  are  necessary, 
he  says,  but  the  unity  of  action  is  made  necessary  by  the  unity 
of  time  and  the  unity  of  place.  "And  so,"  as  Professor  Saintsbury 
picturesquely  remarks,  "the  Fatal  Three,  the  Weird  Sisters  of 
dramatic  criticism,  the  vampires  that  sucked  the  blood  out  of 
nearly  all  European  tragedy,  save  in  England  and  Spain,  for  three 
centuries,  make  their  appearance." 

Just  when  "the  Fatal  Three"  crossed  over  into  France,  we  do 
not  know;  but  we  do  know  that  they  were  unsightly  hags  in  the 
eyes  of  at  least  one  playwright  and  critic — Frangois  Ogier,  of 
whose  personality  we  know  little  but  of  whose  attitude  toward  the 
unities  there  can  be  no  doubt.  As  early  as  1628 — and  the  date 
has  a  special  importance  in  view  of  the  fact  that  Chapelain  is 
commonly  credited  with  having  introduced  the  theory  of  the 
unities  into  France — there  appeared  a  play  entitled  Tyr  et  Sidon 
by  an  obscure  writer  whose  name  was  de  Schelandre  or  d'Ancheres, 
with  a  preface  by  Ogier.  That  preface,  antedating  the  production 
of  Corneille's  Cid  by  eight  years,  is  written  in  a  key  of  revolt 
against  the  unities.  Ogier  recognizes  their  sway — "cette  regie  que 
nos  critiques  veulent  nous  faire  guarder  si  religieusement  a  cette 
heure" — but  chafes  under  the  yoke.  He  is  rabidly  anti-classical. 
He  shows  that  the  alleged  unity  of  time  is  violated  by  Sophocles 
in  the  Antigone.  He  protests  against  the  extraordinary  conici- 
dences  whereby,  "comme  par  art  de  magie,"  the  characters  in 
the   Greek   drama   appear   at    the   psychological   moment.     He 


'  Aristotle  s  Theory  of  Poetry,  ch.  vii,  p.  291. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  11 

concedes  that  the  Greek  theater  and  its  rules  may  have  served 
well  enough  for  its  time  and  its  people,  but  he  insists  that  with 
other  times  and  climes  and  folks  should  come  other  rules  of 
dramaturgy. 

We  have  given  FranQois  Ogier  more  attention  than  at  first 
sight  he  might  seem  to  deserve;  but  he  is  worth  while,  first,  because 
his  preface  shows  that  the  theory  of  the  unities  had  found  favor  in 
France  earlier  than  has  been  hitherto  supposed;  and  secondly, 
because  he  is  an  example  in  the  literary  world  of  one  born  out  of 
due  time,  a  premature  advocate  of  a  reaction  that  had  not  as  yet 
set  in — "sports'*  botanists  would  call  such — somewhat  as  Chatter- 
ton  prematurely  sensed  the  spirit  of  the  Romantic  revolt  in 
EngHsh  poetry.  It  need  hardly  be  added,  in  the  fight  of  the  class- 
ical tendencies  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  France,  that  Ogier 's 
protests  had  little  if  any  influence;  he  was  verily  the  voice  of  one 
crying  in  the  wilderness.  In  the  very  next  year  appeared  Sophon- 
isbe,  the  first  "classical"  French  tragedy,  from  the  pen  of  Jean  de 
Mairet  (1604-1686). 

When,  under  the  patronage  of  the  great  Cardinal  Richefieu,  the 
formation  of  the  French  Academy  and  the  influence  of  artistic 
coteries  typified  by  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  literary  criticism 
became  a  favorite  mode  of  expression  on  the  part  of  scholars  and 
writers,  adherence  to  the  unities  was  the  touchstone  of  good  form. 
Of  course,  it  was  Richelieu  himself  who  was  mainly  responsible 
for  bringing  this  about.  We  are  told^  that  the  cardinal  first  heard 
of  the  unities  in  a  conversation  with  Jean  Chapelain  (1595-1674), 
his  dependent  and  faithful  henchman,  in  1632.  A  quarter  of  a 
century  later  that  man  of  many  parts,  Frangois  Hedelin,  Abbe 
d'Aubignac,  the  preceptor  of  the  cardinal's  nephew,  the  Due  de 
Fronsac,  made  a  plea  in  favor  of  the  unities  in  his  Practique  du 
ThSdtre.  It  is  interesting  in  this  connection  to  observe  that  when 
the  Abbe  wrote  plays  to  exemplify  his  conceptions  of  the  classical 
rules  he  failed  to  achieve  even  so  much  as  a  succes  d'estime.  An 
unkind  but  succulent  bit  of  criticism — sometimes  attributed  to 
the  great  Conde,  sometimes  to  the  Prince  de  Rohan-Guemene — 
was  ehcited  by  d'Aubignac's  tragedy,  ZenobiCy  in  1647.  The 
author  boasted  that  the  play  had  been  written  in  the  light  of 
principles  derived  from  Aristotle.  "I  cannot  excuse  Aristotle," 
the  critic  said,  "for  having  made  the  Abbe  write  such  a  tragedy." 

3  Pellisson  et  d'Olivet,  Histoire  de  V Acadimie  franqaise. 


12  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

The  production  of  Le  Cid  in  1636,  a  play  from  the  pen  of  one  of 
RicheHeu*s  *'five  poets/*  Pierre  Corneille  (1606-1687),  who  in 
that  moment  sprang  into  the  front  rank  among  the  dramatists  of 
France  and  of  the  world,  focused  attention  more  than  ever  upon 
the  question  of  the  unities.  We  cannot  here  enter  upon  any  details 
concerning  the  controversy  that  then  arose  regarding  a  drama 
which  some  of  the  learned  professed  to  sneer  at  but  to  which  the 
masses  were  quick  to  testify  their  admiration.  Richelieu  and  the 
Academy  condemned  Le  Cid,  and  Chapelain  had  thrust  upon  the 
task  of  condemning,  in  the  name  of  the  Academy,  one  of  the 
dramatic  masterpieces  of  the  world  because  it  did  not  conform 
to  the  "classical"  unities.*  The  bitterness  engendered  by  Cor- 
neille's  sin  against  the  unities  was  not  mollified  by  the  fact  that 
he  had  sinned  with  wide  open  eyes.  Professor  Matthews,  when 
he  tells  us  that  "when  he  [Corneille]  wrote  this  play  [Le  Cid],  he 
had  never  even  heard  of  the  doctrine  of  the  unities,"  overlooks  the 
preface  to  Clitandre,  where  Corneille  says:  "Si  j'ai  renferme 
cette  piece  dans  la  regie  d'un  jour,  ce  n*est  pas  que  je  me  repente 
de  n*y  avoir  point  mis  MSlite,  ou  que  je  me  sois  resolu  a  m*y 
attacher  dorenavant.  Aujourd'hui,  quelques-uns  adorent  cette 
regie,  beaucoup  la  meprisent;  pour  moi,  j'ai  voulu  seulement 
montrer  que  si  je  m'en  eloigne,  ce  n'est  pas  faute  de  la  connaitre." 
That  was  in  1630,  six  years  before  the  Le  Cid.  But  some  twenty 
years  later,  Corneille,  in  his  Discours  du  poeme  dramatique,  de 
la  tragSdie,  des  trois  unites,  professed  himself,  with  reservations, 
a  convert  to  the  classical  view  of  the  dramatic  art.  It  is  to  be 
feared  that  his  poverty  rather  than  his  will  consented  to  this 
change  of  literary  faith,  that  his  conversion  was  little  more  spon- 
taneous than  was  the  conversion  of  Shylock. 

The  most  succinct  and  inclusive  presentation  of  the  French 
conception  of  the  unities  is  given  us  in  the  Art  PoStique  (1674)  of 
Boileau  (1636-1711): 

"Qu'en  un  lieu,  qu'en  un  jour,  un  seul  fait  accompli 
Tienne  jusqu'a  la  fin  le  theatre  rempli." 

There  the  devotees  of  the  "classical"  unities  found  their  inspiration 
and  their  text;  and  there  too  they  found  their  ideal: 

"Mais  nous,  que  la  raison  a  ses  regies  engage. 
Nous  voulons  qu'avec  art  Taction  se  menage." 


*  Sentiments  de  VAcadSmie  sur  le  Cid,  1638. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  13 

There  Racine  (1639-1699)  found  a  medium  of  expression  which 
fitted  admirably  his  dramatic  genius;  there  MoUere  (1621-1673) 
found  a  Procrustean  bed,  comfortable  for  the  most  part,  perhaps, 
but  which  proved  inadequate  to  support  Don  Juan;  there,  for 
two  hundred  years,  the  writers  for  the  French  stage  found  a 
strange  god  to  worship  until  Romanticism  asserted  itself  and 
Victor  Hugo,  in  the  preface  to  Cromwell  (1827)  and  the  premier 
of   Hemani  (1830)  blasted  the  "classical"  shrine. 

Though  in  Spain  the  theory  of  the  unities  of  time,  place,  and 
action  was  not  carried  into  practice,  it  was  known  to  Spanish 
writers  years  before  it  had  caused  a  battle  of  the  books  in  France. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  Cervantes  (1547-1616) — a  neo-classicist  in 
theory  though  a  romanticist  in  practice — ^protesting,  through  the 
mouth  of  the  curate  in  Don  Quixote  (part  I,  chap,  xlviii),  against 
the  violation  of  the  unities  on  the  part  of  dramatic  writers — 
including  Cervantes  himself.  It  is  unfortunate,  he  contends,  for 
foreigners  who  with  great  precision  observe  the  laws  of  the  drama 
"nos  tienen  por  barbaros  e  ignorantes."  The  impropriety  of 
babes  in  arms  raising  whiskers,  which  later  on  was  to  shock 
Boileau  and  scandalize  burly  Ben  Jonson,  meets  with  the  curate's 
spirited  censure : 

"Que  mayor  disparate  puede  ser  en  el  sujeto  que  tratamos, 
que  salir  un  nino  en  mantillas  en  primera  escena  del  primer  acto, 
y  en  la  segunda  salir  ya  hecho  hombre  barbado?  .  .  .  Que 
dire  pues  de  la  observancia  que  guardan  en  los  tiempos  en  que 
puedan  6  podian  suceder  las  acciones  que  representan,  sino  que 
he  visto  comedia  que  la  primera  Jornada  comenzo  en  Europa,  la 
segunda  en  Asia,  la  tercera  se  acabo  en  Africa,  y  aun  si  fuera  de 
cuatro  jornades,  la  cuarta  acabara  en  America  .    .    .    ?'* 

Thus  wrote  Cervantes — we  may  venture  to  susp)ect  with  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek — a  good  quarter  of  a  century  prior  to  the 
quarrel  concerning  Le  Cid.  Breitinger''  cites  numerous  other 
proofs  that  the  unities,  before  they  had  been  generally  recognized 
in  France,  were  in  Spain  knowingly  honored  in  the  breach.  The 
sprightly  Tirso  de  Molina  (1571-1648)  includes  in  his  Cigarrales 
de  Toledo  a  discussion  of  one  of  his  own  dramas.  El  Vergonzoza  en 
Palacio.  In  the  course  of  the  discussion  one  character  castigates 
Tirso  for  his  insolence  in  overstopping  "the  salutary  limits  assigned 


'  Unites  d^ArUtote  avant  le  Cid  de  Corneille. 


14  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE*S 

to  the  dramatic  form  by  its  originators,**  for  exceeding  the  period 
of  twenty-four  hours,  and  for  ignoring  the  unity  of  place.  Then 
arises  another  character,  the  mighty  Don  Alejo,  who  vigorously 
defends  Tirso's  procedure  and  points  to  the  great  Lope  de  Vega 
(1562-1635)  as  a  conscious  sinner  against  the  canons  of  the  ancients 
and  as  "el  reformador  de  la  commedia  nueva."  This  was  twelve 
years  prior  to  the  quarrel  concerning  Le  Cid.  Lope  himself,  whose 
critical  acumen  was  in  inverse  ratio  to  his  dramatic  fertility,  pro- 
tested his  admiration  of  the  Aristotelian  unities,  but  he  continued 
to  write  plays  that  flouted  them.  And  as  for  Calderon  de  la  Barca 
(1600-1681),  in  the  very  year,  1636,  in  which  Corneille's  master- 
piece was  produced  and  traduced  in  France,  the  Spanish  genius 
presented  at  the  Bonn  Retiro  a  play  called  Los  tres  mayores  Pro- 
digios,  of  which  the  three  acts  were  each  produced  on  a  separate 
stage  and  by  a  distinct  company  of  players.  It  approximated  to 
the  * 'classical"  unities  about  as  closely  as  would  a  present  day 
three-ringed  circus. 

The  first  recognition  of  the  unities  we  meet  with  in  English 
criticism  occurs  in  the  dedication  of  a  play  by  George  Whetstone 
(1544P-1587?).  The  work  bore  the  title:  The  right  excellent  and 
famous  History e  of  Promos  and  Cassandra:  divided  into  two  Com- 
micall  Discourses,  and  was  published  in  London  in  1578.  The 
plot,  taken  fron  Giraldi  Cinthio's  Hecatommithiy  was  utilized 
by  Shakespeare  in  Measure  for  Measure.  The  author,  about  to 
depart  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  with  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert, 
dedicates  his  play  "To  his  worshipful  Friende  and  Kinseman, 
William  Fleetewoode,  Esquier,  Recorder  of  London."  Like  all 
the  scholars  of  his  time,  Whetstone  worships  at  classical  shrines. 
He  paraphrases  Plato  and  eulogizes  Menander,  Plautus,  and  Ter- 
ence; but  he  falls  decidedly  foul  of  the  contemporary  drama  which 
he  dismisses  as  consisting  of  "try f els  of  yonge,  unadvised,  and 
rashe  witted  wryters."  He  condemns  the  French,  Italian,  and 
Spanish  drama  for  being  lascivious,  and  the  German  for  being 
"too  holye;"  then  he  takes  his  own  countrymen  to  task  for  their 
sins  against  the  unities : 

"The  Englishman  in  this  qualitie,  is  most  vaine,  indiscreete, 
and  out  of  order:  he  first  groundes  his  worke  on  impossibilities: 
then,  in  three  howers  ronnes  he  thro  we  the  world:  marry  es,  gets 
children,  makes  children  men,  men  to  conquer  kingdomes,  murder 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  15 

monsters,  and  bringeth  Gods  from  Heaven,  and  fetcheth  divels 
from  Hel." 

"The  right  noble,  vertuous,  and  learned  Sir  Phillip  Sidney- 
Knight,'*  as  he  was  described,  not  fulsomely,  by  Olney,  the 
publisher  of  the  Apologie  in  1595,  is  commonly  regarded  as  the 
first  English  writer  to  advocate  the  unities.  The  fact  that 
Whetstone  preceded  him  in  recognizing  the  unities  does  not  take 
from  the  interest  of  Sidney's  reference  to  the  classical  rules, 
written  about  1580.  Sidney  (1554-1586)  complains  that  the  drama 
of  his  day  observes  the  rules  "neyther  of  honest  ciuilitie,  nor  of 
skilful  Poetrie."  He  pays  a  tribute  to  the  excellence  of  Gorhoduc, 
but  grieves  that  Sackville's  is  not  a  model  tragedy.  "For  it  is 
faulty  both  in  place,  and  time,  the  two  necessary  companions  of 
all  corporall  actions.  For  where  the  stage  should  alwaies  represent 
but  one  place,  and  the  vttermost  time  presupposed  in  it,  should  be, 
both  by  Aristotle's  precept,  and  common  reason,  but  one  day: 
there  is  both  many  dayes,  and  many  places,  inartificially  imagined." 
And  he  further  protests  against  the  violations  of  the  unity  of  place 
by  pointing  to  other  dramas  wherein  are  depicted  "Asia  of  the 
one  side,  and  Africk  of  the  other,  and  so  many  other  under- 
kingdoms,  that  the  Player,  when  he  cometh  in,  must  ever  begin 
with  telling  where  he  is." 

The  most  distinguished  defender  of  the  unities  in  England  was 
Ben  Jonson  (1573-1637)  whose  reverence  for  classical  precedents 
so  influenced  him  both  in  theory  and  practice  as  to  set  him  against 
the  English  genre  of  drama  as  exemplified  by  Marlowe,  Shakes- 
peare, and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Thus,  in  the  Prologue  to 
Every  Man  in  His  Humour  (the  prologue  did  not  appear  until 
1616,  though  the  play  had  been  presented  as  early  as  1598),  he 
indulges  in  a  fling  at  violations  of  the  unity  of  time  that  half  a 
century  later  was  to  find  an  echo  in  Boileau: 

"To  make  a  child,  now  swaddled,  to  proceed 

Man,  and  then  shoot  up,  in  one  beard,  and  weed, 

Past  threescore  years." 

Such  absurdities,  we  are  told,  the  author  of  the  present  play  will 
not  be  guilty  of,  but 

"He  rather  prays  you  will  be  pleased  to  see 

One  such  to-day  as  other  plays  should  be; 

Where  neither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas; 

Nor  creaking  throne  comes  down,  the  boys  to  please; 


10  CONTRAST  IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

But  deed,  and  language,  such  as  men  do  use: 
And  persons,  such  as  comedy  would  choose, 
When  she  would  show  an  image  of  the  times/* 

Jonson  defended  the  unities;  but  in  England  as  in  Spain  the 
unities  were  beyond  defence.  Alaham  and  Mustafa,  by  Sidney's 
friend,  Fulke  Greville  Lord  Brooke,  were  stillborn.  It  but  re- 
mained for  John  Dryden  (1631-1700),  at  a  time  when  the  unities 
were  revered  in  France,  to  cast  the  last  stone  at  them  in  England; 
**It  is  not  enough  that  Aristotle  has  said  so,  for  Aristotle  drew  his 
models  of  tragedy  from  Sophocles  and  Euripides;  and,  if  he  had 
seen  ours,  might  have  changed  his  mind." 

Thus,  the  procedure  of  playwrights  and  the  findings  of  critics 
are  agreed  in  regarding  the  so-called  "classical"  unities  as  not 
essential  to  the  notion  of  the  dramatic.  All  three  unities  may, 
indeed,  exist  in  a  play,  but  a  play  may  exist  without  the  unities. 
This  applies  especially  to  the  un-Aristotelian  unities  of  time  and 
place.  Dryden,  in  his  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  has  in  his  usual 
straightforward  and  common-sense  fashion  set  down  the  elastic 
limits  under  which  the  unity  of  time  can  be  practically  effective: 
"In  few  words,  my  opinion  is  this  .  .  .  that  the  imaginary  time 
of  every  play  ought  to  be  contrived  in  as  narrow  a  compass  as  the 
nature  of  the  plot,  the  quality  of  the  persons,  and  variety  of 
accidents  will  allow."  This  is  something  very  different  from  the 
cast-iron  conception  of  dramatic  unity  entertained  by  Cinthio 
and  Castelvetro  and  Boileau;  it  is  merely  a  tentative  application 
of  the  general  principle  of  economy  to  the  art  of  playwriting,  the 
principle  which  Shakespeare,  despite  his  indifference  to  the  unities, 
employed  frequently — ^for  instance,  in  Julius  Caesar  where  he 
marks  no  appreciable  interval  between  the  two  battles  of  Philippi 
and  where  he  has  Caesar  assasinated,  buried,  and  twice  eulogized 
all  in  one  day. 

And  so  it  is  with  the  unity  of  place.  There  are  plays  in  which  it 
can  with  profit  be  introduced — in  Ibsen's  Pillars  of  Society,  for 
example,  and  Mr.  John  Galsworthy's  The  Pigeon — but  there  are 
other  plays  which  have  flouted  it,  with  manifest  advantage.  Thus, 
an  ignoring  of  the  unity  of  place  in  Shakespeare's  Merchant  of 
Venice  gives  us  in  the  first  half  of  the  play  those  remarkably  effec- 
tive alternations  of  Venice  and  Belmont,  each  place  representing 
a  distinct  strand  of  the  plot,  the  strands  being  twisted  together 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  17 

about  the  middle  of  the  play.  Calderon  employs  the  same  device 
in  an  almost  similar  way  in  La  Vida  es  Sueno. 

Though  more  nearly  essential  than  the  satelhte  unities  of  time 
and  place,  the  unity  of  action  has  been  at  times — though  by  no 
means  at  all  times — disregarded  by  successful  dramatists.  A 
modern  instance  is  afforded  in  Milestones,  a  drama  of  exceptional 
force  and  charm  by  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  and  Mr.  Edward  Knob- 
lauch. It  has  no  appreciable  plot,  but  furnishes  instead  three 
pictures  of  the  same  family,  each  picture  representing  a  different 
generation.  The  lover  and  his  lass  of  the  first  act  are  the  grand- 
parents sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  last  act.  Each  act  yields  a  com- 
pleteness of  impression  and  constitutes  in  reality  a  one-act  drama. 
Here  there  is  not  one  dramatic  action,  but  three,  all  equally 
prominent. 

And  so,  while  the  so-called  "classical"  unities  of  action,  place, 
and  time  warrant  the  attention  of  both  playwright  and  critic, 
while  they  possess  for  us  more  than  a  mere  historic  interest,  while 
they  find  acceptance  in  certain  species  of  the  drama,  they  are  far 
from  constituting  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  dramatic  art.  As 
Dryden  has  well  said:  "If  by  these  rules  (to  omit  many  others 
drawn  from  the  precepts  and  practice  of  the  ancients)  we  should 
judge  our  modern  plays,  'tis  probable  that  few  of  them  would 
endure  the  trial :  that  which  should  be  the  business  of  a  day,  takes 
up  in  some  of  them  an  age;  instead  of  one  action,  they  are  the 
epitomes  of  a  man's  life;  and  for  one  spot  of  ground,  which  the 
stage  should  represent,  we  are  sometimes  in  more  countries  than 
the  map  can  show  us." 

We  must  perforce  admit  that  the  drama  cannot  be  confined 
within  the  boundaries  of  the  unities,  unless  we  adopt  the  ultra- 
Aristotehan  attitude  of  the  diverting  critic,  Mr.  Trotter,  in  Bernard 
Shaw's  Fanny*s  First  Play,  and  dismiss  all  the  dramatic  master- 
pieces not  in  conformity  with  the  unities  by  dogmatically  damning 
them:  "They  are  not  plays." 

Let  us  now  consider  three  other  attempts  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion: What  is  the  underlying  and  essential  constituent  of  the  dramatic? 

One  answer  comes  out  of  Germany.  .  After  Lessing  (1729- 
1781),  by  means  of  his  own  plays  and  by  means  of  his  commentaries 
on  the  plays  of  others  in  the  Hamburgische  Dramaturgie,  had  in  a 
measure  succeeded  in  the  dual  task  of  restoring  the  German 
stage  to  power  and  delivering  it  from  the  thraldom  of  "classical" 


18  CONTRAST    IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

precepts,  there  came  the  famous  and  fertile  "Sturm  und  Drang" 
period — which  gave  us  Goethe  and  Schiller — in  the  second  half 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  We  have  called  the  "Sturm  und 
Drang"  period  fertile;  in  the  fact  of  its  fertility  lay  its  strength 
and  its  weakness.  Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  its  strength 
was  evident;  some  years  later  thoughtful  critics  were  aware  of 
its  weakness.  Among  them  was  Gustav  Freytag  (1816-1895), 
a  successful  playwright  whose  many-sided  mind  and  manifold 
activities  as  editor,  novelist,  critic,  soldier,  philologist,  and  states- 
man enabled  him  to  unite  to  his  knowledge  of  stagecraft  an 
outlook  upon  the  course  of  dramatic  history  in  his  own  and  in 
other  countries. 

Freytag  was  not  long  in  perceiving  that  while  at  one  time 
the  German  drama  had  been  crippled  by  excessive  formality,  it 
was  now  ailing  for  lack  of  definite  constructive  rules.  "We 
suffer,"  he  writes  in  the  introduction  to  his  Technik  des  Dramas 
(1863),  "from  the  opposite  of  narrow  limitations;  we  lack  salutary 
restraint,  form,  a  popular  style,  sureness  of  touch,  a  definite 
range  of  dramatic  material;  our  work  has  become  at  all  points 
haphazard  and  uncertain.  And  so  it  is  that  today,  eighty 
years  after  Schiller,  the  young  poet  finds  it  difiicult  to  make 
himself  at  home  on  the  stage." 

Accordingly,  Freytag  sought  to  formulate  certain  rules  whereby 
the  art  of  playwriting  might  be  subjected  to  salutary  limitations 
both  as  regards  choice  of  subject  and  treatment  of  material. 
He  did  this  with  full  knowledge  that  his  work  must  necessarily 
be  both  tentative  and  temporary;  and  furthermore  he  strove,  not 
to  spin  theories  a  priori  and  apply  them  in  a  dogmatic  way,  but 
to  examine  the  great  plays  of  the  world  and  seek  to  find  in  them 
those  principles  of  sound  construction  which  the  dramatists  of 
his  own  time  so  sorely  needed  to  apply  in  their  work.  The  result 
is  his  book.  Die  Technik  des  Dramas. 

First  of  all,  Freytag  asks  himself.  What  is  the  dramatic?  He 
replies  that  the  dramatic  includes  those  emotions  of  the  soul 
which  manifest  themselves  by  means  of  external  action.  "Action, 
in  itself,  is  not  dramatic;  passionate  feeling,  in  itself,  is  not 
dramatic.  Not  the  presentation  of  a  passion  for  itself,  but  of  a 
passion  which  leads  to  action,  is  the  business  of  dramatic  art." 
("  .  .  .  der  Leidenschaft,  welche  zu  einen  Thun  leitet,  ist 
die  Aufgabe  der  dramatischen  Kunst.")     Action  he  defines  as 


HISTORICAL   PLATS  19 

an  event  dominated  by  an  idea  and  interpreted  by  characters. 
("  .  .  .  einer  Idee  angeordnete  Begebenheit,  deren  Inhalt 
durch  die  Charaktere  vorgefUhrt  wird.") 

This,  his  generic  and  foundation  principle,  Freytag  applies 
to  the  constructive  side  of  the  dramatic  art  by  indicating  five 
successive  stages  or  sections  in  the  development  of  a  play.  These 
are:  the  Exposition,  the  Rise,  the  Chmax,  the  Fall,  and  the  Catas- 
trophe. He  illustrates  the  theory  by  means  of  the  familiar 
pyramidal  diagram  in  which  the  Rve  stages  are  represented  by 
successive  letters  of  the  alphabet,  thus: 


According  to  Freytag's  theory,  the  Exposition  or  Introduction 
(Einleitung)  states  conditions,  gives  explanations  and  starts  the 
action;  the  Rise  (Steigerung)  introduces  the  exciting  forces  or 
complications  and  carries  the  action  on  to  the  Climax  (Hohen- 
punkt)  where  the  action  takes  a  definite  set  toward  the  final  and 
inevitable  Catastrophe  which  it  reaches  by  way  of  the  Fall  (Um- 
kehr).  He  finds,  likewise,  in  every  well  constructed  drama 
three  dramatic  forces  or  crises:  one  (das  erregende  Moment) 
between  the  Exposition  and  the  Rise,  the  second  (das  tragische 
Moment)  between  the  Climax  and  the  Fall,  the  third  (das  Moment 
der  letzten  Spannung)  between  the  Fall  and  the  Catastrophe. 
Thus  he  finds  eight  component  parts  in  the  drama,  all  of  which, 
save  the  second  and  third  crises,  he  regards  as  essential. 

Freytag,  of  course,  did  not  originate  the  notion  of  a  five-fold 
division  of  the  drama.  Corneille  {Des  trois  unitSs)  reminds  us 
that  Horace  favored  the  plan,  and  Voltaire,  in  his  commentary 
on  Corneille,  elaborates  the  idea  thus:  "Cinq  actes  nous  paraissent 
necessaires:  le  premier  expose  le  lieu  de  la  scene,  la  situation  des 
heros  de  la  piece,  leurs  inter^ts,  leurs  moeurs,  leurs  desseins; 
le  second  commence  I'intrigue;  elle  noue  au  troisieme:  le  quatrieme 
prepare  le  denouement,  qui  se  fait  au  cinquieme.  Moins  de 
temps   precipiterait   trop    Faction;   plus   d'etendue   Tenerverait. 


20  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

II  en  est  comme  d'un  repas  d'appareil;  s'il  dure  trop  peu,  c'est 
une  halte;  s'il  est  trop  long,  il  ennuie  et  degoiite."*  The  division 
into  five  stages  was  suggested  to  Freytag  by  the  five  acts  into 
which  the  Shakespearean  plays  have  been  divided  by  editors. 
The  German  playwright  was  not  in  a  position  to  know  that 
Shakespeare  himself  used  no  such  scheme  of  division,  but  con- 
tended himself  with  splitting  his  plays  into  an  indeterminate 
number  of  scenes.  But  taking  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  as  he 
found  them,  Freytag  had  no  great  diflSculty  in  using  them  to 
illustrate  his  theory;  and  Professor  Moulton  has  carried  the 
application  much  further  with  a  wealth  of  detail  and  with  an 
astonishing  outlay  of  analytic  ingenuity.' 

It  is  undeniable  that  many  great  plays — including  some  by 
Sophocles  and  Calderon — ^may  be  analyzed  according  to  the 
pyramid  diagram,  and  it  is  not  less  undeniable  that  the  rules 
formulated  by  Freytag  constitute  a  serviceable  scaffolding  for 
the  aspirant  who  would  learn  how  to  write  a  drama;  but  it  must 
be  admitted  that  many  more  great  plays  are  not  susceptible  of 
the  pyramid  analysis  and  that  many  dramatists  have  learned 
their  trade  without  the  assistance  of  Freytag's  five  stages  and 
three  crises.  To  take  but  a  few  instances  of  many,  the  (Edipus 
ColoneuSy  El  Gran  Teatro  del  Mundo,  the  First  Part  of  King  Henry 
Fourth,  Chanticler,  Lady  Windermere's  Fan,  Man  and  Superman 
and  The  Pigeon  are  all  dramas  that  have  stood  the  crucial  test  of 
presentation  on  the  stage  and  that  are  recognized  by  everybody 
who  knows  as  being  in  the  true  sense  dramas;  yet  not  one  of  them 
will  be  found  to  square  at  all  points  with  the  elaborate  theory  of 
Freytag.  Thus,  the  Greek  play  has  no  exposition,  the  Spanish 
play  has  no  climax,  the  Galsworthy  play  has  no  conclusion.  And 
how  could  the  Freytag  theory  be  applied  to  Sardou's  Cleopatre 
with  its  six  acts,  each  of  which  is  so  self-sufficing  as  to  be  practially 
independent  of  the  others,  a  play  with  no  climax,  with  six  crises 
and  with  a  conclusion — the  death  of  the  protagonists — which 
finds  its  motives  and  dramatic  preparation  only  in  the  final  act 
in  which  it  occurs.^ 

So  much  for  the  applicability  of  Freytag's  rules  of  construction. 
What  of  his  fundamental  principles,  of  his  conception  of  the  nature 
of  the  dramatic?    According  to  him,  the  essential  of  the  drama  is 

•  Quoted  in  CEuvres  des  deux  Corneille,  tome  second,  p.  387. 
''Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Artist. 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  21 

passion  manifesting  itself  in  external  action.  This  holds  good  for 
many,  perhaps  most,  of  the  great  plays  of  all  countries  and  of  all 
times;  but  it  by  no  means  holds  good  for  all,  especially  for  many  of 
the  plays  which  in  France  and  Germany  and  England  and  the 
United  States  have  been  born  in  our  own  day  and  generation. 
Passion  that  leads  to  action  may,  without  undue  stretching,  be 
made  a  concomitant  of  the  tragedy  in  Greece,  of  the  '*capa  y 
espada"  theater  in  the  golden  age  of  Spanish  literature,  of  the 
drama  of  blood  and  intrigue  which  was  so  conspicuous  in  the 
Elizabethan  epoch;  but  it  cannot  be  held  to  be  representative  of 
the  twentieth  century  drama  in  America  and  Europe.  It  accorded 
well  enough  with  the  plays  in  which  Richard  Burbage  acted;  it 
does  not  accord  with  the  plays  in  which  Mr.  John  Drew  appears. 
Passion  leading  to  action  would  seem  to  be  an  essential  ingredient 
in  one  form  of  the  drama,  namely,  melodrama — a  form  which, 
dispite  the  ill  repute  in  which  it  is  sometimes  held,  is  found  in 
many  of  the  great  plays  of  the  world,  and  which  will  to  some  extent 
always  be  with  us,  whether  in  the  cavortings  of  Herod  in  the 
moralities  or  the  launching  of  the  curse  of  Rome  in  Richelieu  or 
the  flight  of  sixteen  horses  in  Ben-Hur,  But  there  are  many 
plays  which  are  not  in  the  least  melodramatic;  and  there  are 
many  plays  which,  though  they  include  certain  melodramatic 
episodes,  depend  on  non-melodramatic  elements  for  their  dramatic 
effectiveness.  Thus,  in  HamleU  though  we  have  several  decidedly 
melodramatic  scenes,  such  as  the  visitation  of  the  Ghost,  the 
play  within  the  play,  and  the  passage  at  foils  between  Hamlet 
and  Laertes,  the  play  as  a  whole  certainly  cannot  be  consistently 
summarized  as  an  example  of  passion  leading  to  action;  rather  it 
is  a  demonstration  of  intellect  resulting  in  inaction, — where 
"enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment  .  .  .  lose  the  name  of 
action."  And  so,  too,  passion  leading  to  action  does  not  strike 
the  keynote  of  MoUere*s  Le  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme  nor  of  Wilde*s 
sparkling  farce.  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest;  in  both  there  is 
action  but  no  passion;  and  does  not  Freytag  plainly  tell  us  that 
action  alone  does  not  constitue  the  dramatic?  ("Nicht  dramatisch 
ist  die  Action  an  sich.") 

Another  and  even  more  noteworthy  endeavor  to  formulate  the 
underlying  principle  of  the  dramatic  is  that  which  was  fathered 
by  the  distinguished  critic  and  unapproachable  prosateur,  the  late 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere  (1849-1906).     In  the  first  and  the  fifteenth 


22  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

conference  of  his  Odeon  course  on  Les  Epoques  du  Tkidtre  Frangais 
{1636-1850),  given  during  the  winter  of  1891-1892,  Burnetiere 
jBrst  set  forth  his  theory.  In  his  conference  on  Corneille's  master- 
piece, he  is  led  into  a  distinction  between  two  kinds  of  hero  typified 
by  the  leading  characters  in  Gil  Bias  and  Le  Manage  de  Figaro. 
He  says: 

"Les  ressemblances  y  sont  nombreuses:  la  difference  en  est 
profonde.  Et  en  quoi  consiste-t-elle  ?  Essentiellement  en  ceci, 
qu'il  n'arrive  a  Gil  Bias  aucune  aventure,  heureuse  ou  malheureuse, 
dont  il  soit  proprement  Partisan,  rien  qu'il  ait  prevu,  ni  deliber^, 
ni  voulu;  tandis  qu'au  contraire  il  n'arrive  rien  a  Figaro  qui  ne 
soit  finalement  le  fruit  ou  la  recompense  de  son  activite,  de  sa 
ruse,  et  de  son  habilete  ...  Et  ce  n'est,  si  vous  le  voulez, 
qu'une  difference  de  procedes,  en  un  certain  sens,  mais,  en  un 
autre  sens,  vous  verrez  qu'elle  va  jusqu'au  fond  des  choses,  parce 
qu'elle  resulte  effectivement  d'une  difference  de  conception  du 
monde  et  de  la  vie."     (Page  19.) 

Here  is  the  basis,  founded  on  actualities  of  literature  and  life, 
upon  which  Brunetiere  was  later  on  to  construct  his  famous  theory 
of  the  drama,  and  it  is  a  classification  which  the  student  of  litera- 
ture and  life  cannot  afford  to  ignore.  In  books  and  in  life  we  have 
two  sorts  of  characters — the  active  and  the  passive,  the  conquerors 
and  the  conquered,  the  dynamic  and  the  static,  the  developing 
and  the  stationary,  the  biters  and  the  bitten,  the  eaters  and  the 
eaten,  the  doers  and  the  done.  The  former  have  glimpsed  the 
practical  significance  of  Don  Quixote's  aphorism,  "The  strong  man 
carves  out  his  fortune,  and  every  man  is  the  son  of  his  own  works"; 
the  world  is  their  oyster,  which  they  with  sword  must  open;  they 
shape,  mold,  modify  their  environment,  bending  it  by  force  of 
wiU.  The  latter  are  chameleons,  taking  their  color  from  their 
surroungings;  sensitive  souls,  influenced  by  every  passing  cloud; 
free  lances,  flinging  the  bridle  over  their  horse's  head  and  caring 
not  which  road  they  take;  drifters — though  often  extremely 
charming  persons — following  always  the  shimmering  and  fragrant 
path  of  least  resistance. 

This  classification  of  human  beings  received  its  application  to 
the  dramatist's  art  in  the  last  conference  of  the  series  on  Scribe 
and  Musset.  The  critic  lays  down  two  "lois  essentielles  du 
theatre,"  the  first  of  which — and  one  that  need  not  detain  us 
here — being  that  a  plot,  to  be  truly  dramatic,  must  deal  with 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  23 

some  topic  of  general  interest,  a  moral  problem,  or  a  social  ques- 
tion.    Then  he  proceeds  (page  369) : 

"Une  autre  loi  n*est  pas  moins  essentielle:  [Later  Brunetiere 
came  to  consider  it  as  far  more  essential]  c'est  elle  qui  veut  qu'ime 
action  de  theatre  soit  conduite  par  des  volontes,  sinon  toujours 
libres,  mais  toujours  au  moins  conscientes  d'elles  m^mes;  .  .  . 
mais  ce  qui  fait  a  travers  les  Htteratures,  depuis  les  Grecs  jusqu'a 
nous,  Tunite  permanente  et  continue  de  I'espece  dramatique,  c*est 
le  spectacle  d'une  volonte  qui  se  deploie; — et  voila  d'abord  pourquoi 
Taction  et  Taction  ainsi  definie,  sera  toujours  la  loi  du  theatre.'* 

Here  we  have  in  a  brief  form  the  theory  which  later  on  its 
author  was  more  amply  to  develop.  There  are  two  kinds  of  char- 
acters, those  who  will  and  those  who  do  not  will;  those  who  will, 
and  who  manifest  their  will  in  action,  are  the  dramatic  characters. 
Hence  the  drama  represents  will  in  action. 

The  complete  and  perfected  presentation  of  this  theory  of 
the  will  in  the  drama  we  get  from  Brunetiere  in  the  preface  which 
he  wrote  for  Les  Annales  du  ThSdtre  et  de  la  Musique  for  1893. 
The  preface,  entitled  La  Loi  du  TkSdtre,  begins  in  the  form  of  a 
delightfully  familiar  epistle  to  Edouard  Noel,  one  of  the  authors 
of  Les  Annales,  but  as  it  proceeds  it  loses  something  of  its  inform- 
ality and  becomes  a  severe,  though  sprightly,  academic  essay. 
Brunetiere  assures  us  that  there  is  a  difference  between  the  laws 
of  the  drama  and  the  rules  of  the  drama,  and  that  he  for  one  does 
not  believe  in  the  "pouvoir  mysterieux  des  regies,"  for  conditions 
change  from  age  to  age  and  therefore  rules  of  dramatic  writing 
based  on  those  conditions — such  as  the  celebrated  unities — must 
change  with  them.  But  it  is  different  with  the  laws  of  the  drama, 
and  he  proposes  to  formulate  the  theory — or  at  least  a  theory — 
which  embodies  a  recognition  of  the  fundamental  law  of  the  theater: 
**Drame  ou  vaudeville,  ce  que  nous  demandons  au  theatre,  c'est 
le  spectacle  d'une  volonte  qui  se  deploie  en  tendant  vers  un  but, 
et  qui  a  conscience  de  la  nature  des  moyens  qu'elle  y  fait  servir." 
Furthermore  since  the  will  in  action  implies  conflict,  we  have  the 
basis  of  classification  of  the  species  of  the  drama  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  obstacle  which  the  will  is  seeking  to  surmount. 
Thus,  if  the  obstacle  is  serious  and  unsurmountable,  we  have 
tragedy;  if  the  obstacle  takes  the  form  of  prejudice  or  social 
convention,  we  have  the  romantic  play  or  else  the  bourgeois 
drama;  if  the  obstacle  is  less  serious,  we  have  comedy. 


^  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

In  the  course  of  the  numerous  examples  from  French  Hterature 
which  Brunetiere  cites  to  elucidate  his  views,  he  turns  once  more 
to  Gil  Bias  and  Le  Manage  de  Figaro.  He  shows  that  Le  Sage's 
hero,  being  a  man  who  does  not  exercise  his  volition  but  trusts 
to  a  beneficent  chance  and  takes  things  as  they  come,  would  not 
make  a  suitable  character  for  a  play,  while  Beaumarchais'  hero 
— ^a  doer  of  things,  a  captain  of  destiny,  a  shaper  of  environment, 
and  a  molder  of  men — because  he  does  exercise  his  volition,  is 
an  eminently  dramatic  character. 

Such  is  the  volitional  theory  of  the  drama  as  set  forth  by 
Brunetiere.  It  is  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  old,  yet  already 
it  has  attained  a  wide  vogue,  and  deservedly  so,  for  unquestionably 
it  serves  to  explain  very  many  of  the  great  plays  of  all  literatures 
and  of  all  times.  The  attempt  has  been  made  to  show  that  it  is 
old  as  Arsitotle  and  that  earlier  writers,  including  Goethe,  Hegel, 
and  Coleridge,  had  enunciated  it  prior  to  the  French  critic;  but 
the  fact  remains  that,  whatever  his  debt  may  have  been  to  pre- 
ceding thinkers — and  I  am  strongly  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  a 
very  light  debt  indeed —  to  Brunetiere  belongs  the  distinction  of 
developing  and  clarifying  the  theory  and  of  putting  it  into  a 
form  that  makes  it  accessible  to  all  who  run  and  read. 

Brunetiere*s  theory  deserves  our  respect  and  has  a  practical 
application  to  the  drama  and  to  life.  It  is  difficult  to  over- 
estimate the  importance  of  the  r61e  played  by  the  will  in  the  book 
world,  the  stage  world,  and  the  workaday  world.  Brunetiere 
rightly  says:^ 

"L'intelligence  est  maitresse  dans  le  domaine  de  la  speculation, 
mais  la  volonte  est  reine  dans  Tordre  de  Taction,  et  par  consequent 
dans  I'historie.  C'est  la  volonte  qui  donne  le  pouvoir;  et  on  ne  le 
perd  guere  que  par  une  defaillance  ou  une  demission  de  la  volonte." 

There  is,  indeed,  so  much  of  the  volitional  element  in  human 
life,  and  so  much  of  its  manifestation  by  means  of  external  action, 
that  literature,  the  drama,  music,  painting,  and  sculpture  have 
gladly  accepted  it  as  something  characteristic  of  much  of  the  life 
of  many  men,  as  something  in  which  most  men  at  most  times  are 
certain  to  feel  an  interest.  It  is  not  a  differentia  of  the  drama; 
it  is  present  likewise  in  other  forms  of  art.  It  is  even  present  in 
journalism.     In  an  address  at  the  first  session  of  the  annual 


'  Annate*,  p.  xiv. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  25 

conference  of  teachers  of  journalism,  held  at  Columbia  University 
on  December  29,  1914,  Mr.  Chester  S.  Lord,  formerly  managing 
editor  of  the  New  York  Sun,  is  reported  to  have  said:  "But  were 
you  to  ask  me  to  name  the  kind  of  news  for  which  the  people  surge 
and  struggle — the  most  popular  kind  of  news  printed — I  surely 
must  reply  that  it  is  the  details  of  a  contest — n  fight,  whether 
between  men  or  dogs  or  armies."* 

The  theory  of  volition,  then,  is  searching  and  stimulating; 
but  is  it  at  all  points  adequate?  It  will,  as  we  have  already  said, 
serve  to  explain  very  many  of  the  great  plays  of  the  world;  but 
will  it  serve  to  explain  every  successful  play.f*  We  concede  that 
the  volition  theory  brings  out  what  is  a  frequent  concomitant  of 
the  drama;  but  does  it  touch  upon  what  is  absolutely  essential  to 
the  drama?  Mamy  true  dramas  have  been  written  in  which  the 
element  of  volitional  conflict  is  a  very  prominent  element;  is  it 
possible  to  write  a  play  in  which  the  element  of  volitional  conflict 
is  not  in  evidence? 

For  answer  we  have  two  Greek  tragedies,  both  of  them  regarded 
as  among  the  supreme  dramatic  pieces  of  the  world.  In  the 
Agamemnon  of  JEschylus  where  do  we  find  a  conflict  of  wills? 
A  trap  is  set,  and  the  victim  unwittingly  walks  into  it — something 
dramatic  unquestionably,  but  something  not  dependent  on  the 
volitional  element.  Clytemnestra  manifests  fixity  of  purpose, 
and  fixity  of  purpose  is  sometimes  mistaken  for  exercise  of  will; 
but  even  so,  it  is  precisely  here  that  we  have  the  weakest  and  least 
dramatic  element  in  the  play.  Clytemnestra*s  fixity  of  purpose 
does  not  thrill  us;  but  we  are  deeply  moved  by  the  approach  of  the 
conquering  hero  who  goes  unknowingly  to  his  death.  And  in 
the  CEdipus  Tyrannus  of  Sophocles — sometimes  held  to  be  from  the 
technical  point  of  view  the  supreme  drama  of  all  time — there  is 
actually  an  even  more  notable  absence  of  the  element  of  volition. 
True,  (Edipus  has  striven  to  flee  from  the  rulings  of  fate  that 
prophesied  so  sternly  against  him;  but  that  was  years  ago,  and 
before  the  drama  begins.  During  the  play  itself,  there  is  no 
manifestation  of  volition,  no  conflict  of  wills;  there  is  merely  the 
agonized  writhing  of  a  despairing  victim  bound  irrevocably  to  the 
wheel  of  fate. 

Nor,  in  our  endeavor  to  find  a  play  devoid  of  the  element  of 
volition,  are  we  compelled  to  restrict  ourselves  to  the  ancient 

»  New  York  Times,  December  30,  1914. 


26  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

classical  drama.     Everybody,  I  presume — except  the  late  Count 
Tolstoy  and  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw — will  admit  that  Shakespeare's 

<l  As  You  Like  It  is  a  true  play.  It  is,  to  say  the  very  least  about 
it,  a  dramatic  classic;  yet  we  find  in  it  nothing — except  in  detached 
episodes  like  the  wrestling  match — of  the  volitional  element,  noth- 
ing of  the  overcoming  of  obstacles,  nothing  of  the  conflict  of  wills 
which  Brunetiere  insists  upon  as  essential  to  a  conception  and  a 
realization  of  the  dramatic.  The  characters  in  whom  we  admit 
the  greatest  interest — Rosalind,  the  banished  Duke,  Jacques, 
and  Touchstone — are  precisely  the  characters  who  refrain  from 
any  perceptible  assertion  of  will  power.  Every  one  of  them  unre- 
sisting floats — smilingly  or  frowningly  according  to  his  disposition 
— adown  the  stream  of  circumstance.  The  Forest  of  Arden  is  a 
veritable  land  of  aboulia;  who  enters  there  leaves  will  behind. 
It  is  idle  and  infantile  to  object  that  there  is  will  in  the  play — that 
Orlando  wants  Rosalind  and  that  Rosalind  wants  him  to  want  her. 
Even  if  the  interest  which  the  hero  and  the  heroine  feel  in  each 
other  can  be  classified  under  the  head  of  volition — and  Shakespeare 
himself  is  rather  careful  to  give  us  to  understand  that  here  is  a 

y  case  of  love  at  first  sight  where  the  lovers  love  willy  nilly — it  is  a 
decidedly  sterile  sort  of  volition  and  does  not,  as  Brunetiere  says 
it  must  do,  manifest  itself  in  some  kind  of  conflict. 

Again,  I  am  quite  sure  that  Brunetiere  would  promptly  admit 
that  Calderon  is  a  great  dramatist  and  La  Vida  es  Sueno  a  great 
play.  Yet  here  is  obviously  a  drama  which,  though  it  contains 
plenty  of  action  in  an  incidental  way,  has  for  its  protagonist  the 
pathetic  figure  of  a  young  man  whose  tragedy  is  that  he  absolutely 
cannot  exercise  volition.  And  what  would  Brunetiere  say  to  that 
diverting  picture  of  life,  drawn  by  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett,  which 
makes  a  good  novel  as  Buried  Alive  and  a  better  play  as  The  Great 
Adventure?  Here,  both  in  the  novel  and  in  the  drama,  the  central 
character  is  a  man  who  is  utterly  incapable  of  making  up  his  mind 
about  anything,  and  therefore  doesn't  try,  and  therefore  lives 
happily  amid  all  sorts  of  circumstances.  And  what,  in  the  light 
of  the  volition  theory,  are  we  to  think  of  one  of  the  most  successful 
and  searching  plays  of  our  day.  Chains,  by  Miss  Elizabeth  Baker? 
Chains  has  been  happily  described  by  Mr.  Hamilton  as,  "not  an 
assertion,  but  a  negation,  of  human  wills.  It  presents,  at  most,  a 
struggle  of  wills  with  a  minus  sign  in  front  of  them.  The  entire 
point  of  the  play  is  that  nothing  can  happen  to  the  characters. 


HISTORICAL   PLATS  27 

Their  wills  are  paralyzed  by  an  environment  which  renders  them 
incapable  of  self-assertion."  The  same  play  is  thus  briefly 
analyzed  by  Mr.  William  Archer:  "There  is  absolutely  no  *story' 
in  it,  no  complication  of  incidents,  not  even  any  emotional  tension 
worth  speaking  of.  .  .  .  A  city  clerk,  oppressed  by  the  deadly 
monotony  and  narrowness  of  his  life,  thinks  of  going  to  AustraUa — 
and  doesn't  go :  that  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  the  action.  Also, 
by  way  of  underplot,  a  shopgirl,  oppressed  by  the  deadly  monotony 
and  narrowness  of  her  life,  thinks  of  escaping  from  it  by  marrying 
a  middle-aged  widower — and  doesn't  do  it." 

This  list  of  examples  of  dramas  wherein  the  conflict  of  wills 
does  not  figure,  though  not  typical  of  the  majority  of  successful 
plays,  might  easily  be  lengthened;  but  as  it  stands  it  is  suflScient 
to  disprove  the  claims  of  the  voHtion  formula  as  an  essential  and 
fundamental  law  of  the  drama.  We  have  undeniable  dramas  to 
which  it  does  not  apply. 

Again,  the  volition  theory,  is  not  distinctive  of  the  dramatist's 
art.  It  serves  to  explain,  as  has  been  conceded,  many  of  the 
great  plays  of  the  world;  but  is  might  also  serve  to  explain  many  of 
the  great  narrative  poems  and  many  of  the  great  prose  novels. 
It  is  not  a  true  differentia  of  the  drama.  There  is  more  of  a  conflict 
of  wills  in  the  Iliad  than  there  is  in  Hamlet,  there  are  more  obstacles 
to  overcome  in  Vanity  Fair  than  there  are  in  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus. 
And  Brunetiere's  assumption  that  LeSage's  Gil  Bias  would  not 
make  a  successful  play  is  gratuitous.  How  does  he  know?  The 
thing  might  be  done  tomorrow,  and  the  success  of  the  play  would 
be  dependent  on  factors  other  than  the  hero's  volitional  status. 

A  similar  objection  may  be  urged  against  a  theory  of  the  drama 
diffidently  set  forth  by  Mr.  William  Archer  in  his  book,  Play- 
Making:  a  Manual  of  Craftsmanship,  where,  after  taking  issue  with 
the  vohtional  theory,  he  suggests  one  of  his  own.  Though  Mr. 
Archer  fears  dogmatism  with  a  great  fear,  he  finds  the  necessity 
of  formulating  some  definition  of  the  drama.  While  admitting, 
therefore,  that  "the  only  really  valid  definition  of  the  dramatic  is: 
Any  representation  of  imaginary  personages  which  is  capable  of 
interesting  an  average  audience  assembled  in  a  theater,"  he  is 
constrained  to  be  more  specific  and  definitive,  and  accordingly 
we  have  the  presentation  of  his  theory,  as  follows: 

"What,  then,  is  the  essence  of  the  drama  .  .  .  ?  What  is 
the  common  quality  of  themes,  scenes,  and  incidents,  which  we 


^  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE'S 

recognize  as  specifically  dramatic  ?  Perhaps  we  shall  scarcely  come 
nearer  to  a  helpful  definition  than  if  we  say  that  the  essence  of 
drama  is  crisis.  A  play  is  a  more  or  less  rapidly  developing  crisis  in 
destiny  or  circumstance,  and  a  dramatic  scene  is  a  crisis  within  a 
crisis,  clearly  furthering  the  ultimate  event.  The  drama  may  be 
called  the  art  of  crises.  .  .  .  The  Greek  drama  'subjected  to  the 
faithful  eyes,'  as  Horace  phrases  it,  the  culminating  points  of  the 
Greek  epic;  the  modern  drama  places  under  the  lens  of  theatrical 
presentment  the  culminating  points  of  modern  experience.** 
(Play-Making,  bk.  i,  chap,  iii.)  Mr.  Archer,  foreseeing  the  objec- 
tion that  his  alleged  differentia  of  the  drama  applies  with  equal 
force  to  the  novel,  explains  further  that  the  fundamental  difference 
between  the  novel  and  the  play  is  that  while  the  former  embraces 
* 'considerable  segments  of  many  lives,"  the  latter  gives  "only  the 
culminating  points,  or  shall  we  say  the  interesting  culminations  ? 
— two  or  three  destinies.** 

But  are  we  not  justified  in  demanding  grounds  more  relative 
than  this?  Is  the  drama  nothing  more  than  a  novel  or  an  epic 
purged  of  unessentials.f^  Unquestionably,  the  dramatist — es- 
pecially the  dramatist  who  has  not  at  all  points  mastered  his 
craft — does  well  when  he  concerns  himself  with  the  portraying 
of  interesting  culminations;  but  so  does  the  novelist  and  the 
narrative  poet;  so,  for  that  matter,  does  the  artist  generally.  If 
art  be  the  purgation  of  superfluities — and  to  a  very  large  extent 
it  is  just  that — it  must  perforce  squeeze  out  the  unessentials  of 
life  and  retain  what  remains,  and  what  remains  is  likely  enough 
to  prove  the  culminating  points.  Thus,  the  painter  who  wishes  to 
transfer  St.  Augustine  to  canvas  acts  wisely  when  he  takes  some 
interesting  culmination  in  the  saint's  life — the  "toUe,  lege** 
scene  in  the  garden,  for  instance — and  focuses  attention  on  that; 
such  was  the  procedure  of  Ary  Scheffer  when  he  represented  St. 
Augustine  and  St.  Monica  discoursing  of  things  heavenly  at 
Mantua  shortly  before  the  mother's  demise.  The  Discobolus  of 
Myron  illustrates  the  same  principle  in  sculpture;  and  a  casual 
survey  of  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake  will  show  the  importance  of 
culminating  points  in  the  structure  of  the  narrative  poem. 

The  value  of  the  crisis  is  undeniably  very  great  in  the  drama 
generally;  but  it  is  by  no  means  indispensable.  We  have  ad- 
mittedly dramatic  scenes — such  as  the  conversation  between 
Lorenzo  and  Jessica  in  the  last  act  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice—in 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  29 

which  no  crisis  is  reached;  and  we  have  admittedly  good  plays — 
such  as  Mr.  Louis  N.  Parker's  Pomander  Walk  and  Mr.  Granville 
Barker's  The  Madras  House — which  present  no  especially  interest- 
ing culmmations.  Where  the  element  of  crisis  appears  most 
nearly  necessary  is  in  the  short  story  and  in  the  one-act  play. 
Both  of  these  forms  have  been  sometimes  defined  as  cross-section 
views  of  life;  but  that  definition,  if  it  is  to  be  accepted  at  all, 
depends  entirely  on  the  character  of  the  section  selected  for  repre- 
sentation. The  dramatist  has  yet  to  be  born  who  would  dream  of 
putting  Mr.  Kipling's  story.  The  Taking  of  Lungtungpen  into  a 
play;  yet  it  is  a  remarkable  example  of  interesting  culminations. 
Crisis  explains,  as  nothing  else  can  explain,  Bret  Harte's  Luck 
of  Roaring  Camp  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  Markheim,  neither 
of  which  would  seem  to  offer  much  inducement  to  one  on  drama- 
tization bent.  One-act  plays — ranging  all  the  way  from  Box  and 
Cox  to  Mr.  Alfred  Sutro's  The  Man  in  the  Stalls  and  Mr.  James  M. 
Barrie's  Twelve  Pound  Look — apparently  need  to  utilize  the  element 
of  crisis,  for  they  lose  their  point  if  in  their  brief  traffic  on  the 
stage — usually  less  than  half  an  hour — they  fail  to  bring  out 
some  interesting  culmination  of  the  life  they  depict.  But  what 
is  ture  of  the  short  story  and  of  the  one-act  play  is  not  necessarily 
true  of  the  full  length  novel  and  the  complete  drama. 

Mr.  Archer's  views  are  stimulating  and  illuminating;  but  they 
prove  too  much.  At  any  rate,  we  cannot  consistently  accept 
the  element  of  crisis  as  the  differentia  of  the  drama;  it  has  closer 
applicability  to  the  short  story  and  to  a  specific  dramatic  form, 
the  one-act  play.  Besides,  it  does  not  carry  us  very  far  from 
Freytag.  Instead  of  the  five  definite  stages  and  the  three  definite 
moments  insisted  upon  by  the  German  critic,  Mr.  Archer  would 
give  us  an  indefinite  number  of  stages  or  high  places  or  interesting 
culminations. 

Yet  Mr.  Archer  has  brought  us  very  near  to  the  truth.  There 
is  very  much  of  crisis  in  the  drama.  And  why?  Because  crisis,^ 
or  the  culminating  point,  or  the  interesting  culmination  is  depend- 
ent upon  and  frequently  associated  with  something  else — some- 
thing that  has  its  roots  very  deep  in  the  life  of  man  and  that  has  a 
claim  to  be  considered  the  true  differentia  of  the  dramatic  form. 
What  that  something  is  we  shall  presently  see. 


II. 

THE  ELEMENT  OF  CONTRAST 

In  his  review  article  entitled,  "Contrast  in  the  Drama,"  pub- 
lished in  The  Bookman  of  New  York  City  for  January,  1914, 
Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  set  forth  the  theory  of  dramatic  art  and 
dramatic  construction  that  bids  fair  to  answer  with  complete 
satisfaction  the  fundamental  question :  What  is  the  underlying  and 
essential  constituent  of  the  dramatic?  After  showing,  in  view  of  the 
existence  of  such  dramas  as  Lady  Gregory's  Workhouse  Ward, 
Mr.  Arnold  Bennett's  Great  Adventure,  and  Mr.  John  Galsworthy's 
The  Pigeon,  that  the  theories  of  conflict  and  of  crisis  do  not  apply 
to  all  specimens  of  dramatic  art,  Mr.  Hamilton  proceeds : 

"Is  there,  after  aU,  such  a  thing  as  an  essential  element  of  drama? 
Is  there  a  single  narrative  element  without  which  a  dramatic  scene 
cannot  succeed?  I  think  that  there  is;  but  I  am  willing  to  revoke 
this  decision  so  soon  as  any  writer  shall  show  me  an  exception  to 
the  rule.  It  seems  to  me  at  present  that  the  one  indispensable 
element  to  success  upon  the  stage  is  the  element  of  contrast,  and 
that  a  play  becomes  more  and  more  dramatic  in  proportion  to  the 
multiplicity  of  contrasts  that  it  contains  within  itself. 

"The  sole  reason  why  The  Workhouse  Ward  produces  a  dramatic 
effect  is  that  the  two  beggars  are  emphatically  different  from  each 
other.  The  moonlight  scene  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  is  inter- 
esting on  the  stage  because  of  the  contrast  between  the  contribu- 
tions of  the  two  lovers  to  their  lyrical  duet.  Both  The  Pigeon  and 
The  Madras  House  derive  their  value  from  the  fact  that  they 
exhibit  a  series  of  contrasts  between  characters.  The  Great 
Adventure  is  dramatic  because  the  drifting  hero  is  wonderfully 
contrasted  with  the  practical  and  sensible  heroine  and  every  scene 
of  the  play  reveals  some  minor  contrast  between  antithetic  minds. 
What  is  the  dramatic  element  in  the  soliloquies  of  Hamlet?  Do 
they  not  derive  their  theatrical  effectiveness  from  the  fact  that 
they  present  a  constant  contrast  between  very  different  human 
qualities  which,  in  this  case,  happen  to  have  been  incorporated 
in  a  single  person  ?  Such  a  play  as  Every  Man  in  His  Humour 
stands  outside  of  the  formula  of  Brunetiere,  because  it  exhibits 
no  struggle  of  contending  wills;  it  also  stands  outside  the  formula 
of  Mr.  Archer,  because  it  exhibits  neither  a  crisis  nor  a  series  of 

30 


/ 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  31 

crises;  but  it  is  a  great  comedy,  because  it  exhibits  an  unintermitted 
series  of  contrasts  between  mutually  foiling  personalities." 

Perhaps  the  readiest  way  of  appreciating  the  bearing  and  the 
significance  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  theory  of  the  drama  is  to  find  the 
degree  of  its  applicability  to  everyday  life.  There  are  certain 
moments,  certain  events,  certain  combinations  of  circumstances 
in  the  lives  of  even  the  most  prosaic  of  us  that  we  designate  dram- 
atic. Even  though  the  frequent  use  of  the  word  has  worn  away 
something  of  its  pristine  sharpness  of  contour,  the  milling  has 
not  been  entirely  effaced.  When  persons  speak  of  a  dramatic 
scene  or  a  dramatic  experience  or  a  dramatic  meeting  or  a  dramatic 
enterprise,  they  indubitably  mean  something.  What  do  they 
mean? 

Clearly,  I  think,  they  mean  contrast.  If,  morning  after  morn- 
ing, a  college  instructor  enters  his  classroom  after  a  given  fashion 
under  given  conditions  and  with  his  students  calmly-  awaiting 
his  appearance,  no  one  would  think  of  designating  any  such 
entrance  as  dramatic;  but  should  the  students,  not  anticipating 
his  approach,  engage  in  a  more  or  less  unacademic  display  of 
activity — one  of  them,  let  us  say,  even  essaying  to  give  a  grotesque 
imitation  of  the  instructor — and  should  the  instructor,  considerably 
flustered  and  out  of  breath  and  obviously  indignant,  suddenly 
fling  open  the  door — that  certainly  would  be  a  dramatic  situation. 
And  it  would  be  so  because  it  involves  a  very  obvious  contrast, 
external  and  internal.  Again,  there  is  so  little  of  the  dramatic  in 
the  ordinary  sermon  preached  by  the  ordinary  preacher  in  the 
presence  of  the  ordinary  congregation  that  it  unfortunately 
possesses  a  pronounced  soporific  quality;  but  should  the  preacher, 
in  the  midst  of  his  discourse,  point  a  long  finger  at  a  certain  smooth 
and  nodding  head  and  solemnly  declare:  "I  am  certain  that  that 
man,  sitting  there  in  the  aisle  seat  of  the  fourth  pew  on  my  left, 
deserves  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  is  dead,*'  then  a  dram- 
atic element,  farcial  or  tragic,  would  be  injected  into  the  sermon. 
We  have  learned  not  to  expect  personalities,  especially  harrowing 
personalities,  in  sermons;  their  presence  would  constitute  a  dis- 
concerting contrast.  To  take  a  more  serious  example,  a  little 
drama  never  staged  in  the  theater  but  played  with  pathetic 
verisimilitude  in  a  city  street :  A  mother  one  morning  had  a  dispute 
with  her  grown  son.  As  he  left  the  breakfast  table  to  go  to  his 
work  she  called  after  him  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage:  '*I  hope  1*11 


32^  CONTRAST    IN   SHAKESPEARE' 8 

never  see  you  alive  again!"  A  few  hours  later  she  was  summoned 
by  a  strange  man  who  told  her  that  her  son  needed  her.  She 
burst  through  a  ring  of  idle  spectators  and  fell  down  in  the  dust 
beside  the  lifeless  body  of  her  son,  the  victim  of  an  accident,  and 
cried  repeatedly,  "Is  it  possible  that  you're  dead!"  The  tragedy 
here  is  a  drama  of  contrast  upon  contrast. 

So,  too,  when  we  say  of  a  man  that  he  has  a  dramatic  view  of 
life,  we  really  mean  that  he  has  formed  the  habit  of  noting  the 
contrasts  underlying  even  the  simplest  events  of  the  workaday 
world.  He  may  be  a  pessimist  or  a  cynic  or  a  humorist,  according 
to  the  temperamental  spectacles  through  which  he  regards  the 
contrasts,  but  the  recognition  of  the  contrasts  themselves  justifies 
us  in  calling  his  a  dramatic  outlook.  This  is  plainly  the  explana- 
tion of  the  so-called  dramatic  note  in  Browning.  Browning  was 
not  a  dramatist,  and  yet  there  is  a  very  pronounced  dramatic 
element  in  almost  everything  he  wrote;  it  is  more  than  mere 
visualization,  more  than  intuitive  perception  of  the  state  of  mind 
of  others,  more  than  ability  to  put  character  into  action,  for  many 
of  his  most  dramatic  poems — My  Last  Duchess,  for  example — 
have  no  action  at  all.  It  is  an  almost  uncanny  perception  of 
layer  upon  layer  of  contrasts  in  life  and  character  and  environ- 
ment.    Browning's  dramatic  vision  is  a  vision  of  contrasts. 

Or,  let  us  turn  to  history,  to  the  story  of  the  past,  where  we 
find  a  multitude  of  persons  and  events,  of  times  and  motives  and 
circumstances  and  causes  and  results.  Which  of  those  numerous 
episodes  do  we  style  dramatic?  Assuredly,  those  that  involve 
contrast.  What  is  the  glamour  of  war  if  not  the  dramatic  quality 
of  contrast  .f*  Why  is  it  that  historians  from  the  very  beginning 
have  slurred  over  such  racial  and  national  pursuits  as  agriculture, 
building,  sanitation,  and  cooking,  and  devoted  page  after  page  to 
such  topics  as  personal  adornment,  athletic  carnivals,  slavery, 
and  carnage.'^  The  contrasts  afforded  in  the  latter  group  give  a 
suflScient  answer.  Many  a  farmer  has  followed  the  plough,  but 
the  only  farmer  who  forms  promising  dramatic  material  is  the 
Cincinnatus  who  runs  off  from  his  plough  to  follow  the  flag;  many 
a  cook  has  moved  poets  to  song,  but  the  only  cook  who  has  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  before  the  footlights  is  the  old  woman  who 
slapped  King  Alfred's  face.^° 

'°  For  a  study  of  the  plays  in  whiclj  this  legend  figures  see   King  Alfred  in 
Literature,  by  L.  W.  Miles.     Baltimore>4902. 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  33 

To  reach  the  same  conclusion  in  a  slightly  different  way,  let 
us  suppose  that  upon  us  devolved  the  task  of  writing  the  great 
American  play — a  drama  that  would  embody  the  true  American 
spirit  and  tell  in  a  dramatic  way  the  story  of  America's  past. 
What  episode  in  American  history  should  we  select  as  the  focal 
point  of  our  intended  play  ?  Whatever  our  ultimate  choice  might 
be — the  War  of  the  Revolution  or  the  Civil  War,  territorial 
expansion  or  the  romance  of  business,  the  period  of  the  pioneer  or 
the  period  of  the  skyscraper — one  thing  is  certain:  Our  topic  of 
predelection  would  be  a  topic  involving  the  element  of  contrast. 

So  much  for  what  we  call  the  dramatic  element  in  life  and  its 
foundation  on  the  underlying  or  apparent  contrasts  in  the  career 
of  the  individual  and  the  story  of  the  nation  and  the  race.  Let  us 
now  examine  some  of  the  admittedly  great  dramas  of  the  world 
in  the  light  of  this  theory  of  contrast. 

The  basic  dramatic  motif  of  the  Sophoclean  masterpiece,  the 
CEdipus  TyrannuSy  is  the  helplessness  of  a  man  in  the  coils  of  fate. 
Here  we  have  on  the  one  side  impotence  and  on  the  other  side 
omnipotence.  When  the  drama  opens,  CEdipus  has  ceased  to 
rebel  against  the  decrees  of  fate;  he  has  ceased  even  to  seek  to 
evade  their  consequences.  The  play  shows  him  struggling,  indeed, 
but  struggling  with  no  prospect  of  freeing  himself  from  that  which 
is  ordained.  It  is  the  contrast  of  a  passive  victim  and  an  active 
fate.  The  contrast  is  heightened  by  the  fact  that  the  protagonist 
is  no  ordinary  man.  He  is  a  king,  a  man  of  prowess  and  prestige, 
a  man  who  by  reason  of  his  training,  his  experience  of  life,  and  his 
regal  station  might  be  looked  upon  as  among  the  mighty  ones  of 
earth;  yet  we  find  him  bowed  down  in  unwilling  but  impotent 
submission  before  the  rulings  of  something  invisible,  impalpable, 
yet  infinitely  more  powerful  than  he.  And  still  more  force  is 
given  the  contrast  in  that  CEdipus  has  been  a  good  man;  he  has 
not  knowingly  transgressed  either  the  laws  of  man  or  the  laws  of 
nature;  he  has  striven  to  be  a  pious  son,  a  faithful  husband,  a 
devoted  father,  a  benevolent  ruler.  His  sins  have  been  unwitting 
sins.  Yet  he  is  punished,  punished  in  mind  and  body,  punished 
in  the  full  light  of  day  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  The  CEdipus 
Tyr annus  is  thus  a  tragedy  of  contrasts. 

In  another  type  of  tragedy,  best  exemplified  in  Shakespeare's 
Macbeth,  we  find  a  similar  dependence  for  dramatic  force  and 
intensity  on  the  element  of  contrast.     The  contrast  centers  in  the 


K 


34  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

personality  of  the  murderer  before  and  after  the  commission  of 
his  crime.  The  Macbeth  who  stalks  on  murder  bent  into  the 
sleeping  king's  chamber,  bidding  the  sure  and  firm  set  earth  hear 
not  his  steps,  is  a  very  different  being  from  the  Macbeth  who 
staggers  into  the  courtyard  a  few  moments  later,  his  face  haggard, 
his  limbs  atremble,  his  hands  gilded  with  the  royal  blood  that  all 
great  Neptune's  oceans  cannot  wash  away.  Before  the  murder 
of  Duncan,  Macbeth  saw  in  the  possession  of  the  golden  round 
of  sovereignty  the  greatest  happiness  that  earth  can  give;  after- 
ward, the  crown  sears  his  guilty  brow  and  he  longs  to  be  with  the 
dead  whom  he  to  gain  his  peace  has  sent  to  peace.  Formerly  a 
noble  man,  he  now  hires  murderers  and  slays  helpless  women 
and  unoffending  babes;  formerly  a  brave  man,  he  now  quails 
alike  before  a  witch's  prophecy,  a  spirit's  apparition  and  a  subject's 
sword.  And  this  fundamental  contrast  is  set  off  by  a  group  of 
minor  contrasts  in  character  and  situation  and  events.  DeQuin- 
cey's  superb  analysis  of  the  knocking  at  the  gate  in  the  second  act 
brings  out  the  involved  contrast  between  the  world  of  crime 
within  the  castle  walls  and  the  world  of  retribution  that  clamors 
for  admittance. 

When  Calderon  conceived  the  idea  of  his  admitted  master- 
piece. La  Vida  es  Sueno^  he  did  so  in  the  spirit  of  contrast.  The 
unhappy  Segismundo  leads  two  contrasting  lives  in  two  contrasting 
environments;  and  the  forces  playing  upon  him  are  so  compelling 
in  each  case  that  he  appears  alternately  two  contrasting  person- 
alities. Now  he  is  a  grimed  and  famished  prisoner  chained  Uke 
another  Prometheus  to  the  barren  rock;  now  he  is  a  prince  with 
regal  sway  surrounded  by  subservient  courtiers  and  illimitable 
possibihties  of  enjoyment.  Now  he  is  a  humble  suppliant, 
begging  the  prayers  of  passers  by;  now  he  is  master  of  his  princely 
sword,  able  to  threaten  and  command.  Now,  bowed  down 
beneath  the  yoke  of  sorrow  and  chastened  by  affliction,  he  is  soft 
and  gentle  as  a  woman;  now,  raised  to  courtly  pomp  and  intoxi- 
cated with  power,  he  is  as  a  wild  beast  uncaged.  Minor  contrasts 
cross  and  recross  through  the  play  and  give  significance  to  the 
other  characters  from  the  gradoso  to  the  king;  but  the  supreme 
contrast,  from  which  the  drama  receives  both  its  power  and  its 
name,  is  found  in  the  personality  and  circumstances  of  Segismundo. 

Another  type  of  tragedy,  depending  upon  another  type  of  con- 
trast, is  furnished  in  the  social  dramas  of  more  recent  years. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  35 

notably  in  the  most  representative  work  of  Ibsen.  In  this  species 
of  drama  the  individual  is  arrayed  against  the  social  order  and 
is  ultimately  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  heredity  or  of  environ- 
ment. Many  such  plays  fall  within  the  bearing  of  Brunetiere*s 
formula,  for  they  often  involve  a  conflict;  but  in  others  of  them 
there  is  no  conflict,  the  victim,  as  in  Ghosts^  drifting  along  with  the 
irresistible  current.  But  whether  conflict  exists  or  not,  the  grip 
of  the  drama  is  due  to  cleverly  conceived  contrasts.  Such  is  the 
case  in  Hedda  Gabler.  From  the  opening  of  the  play  even  to  its 
somber  close  we  are  confronted  with  the  contrast  between  a  woman 
and  a  pistol.  She  fires  at  the  bric-a-brac,  she  fires  at  her  visitors, 
she  fires  at  herself.  The  pistol  in  the  hands  of  Hedda  is  typical 
of  the  contrasts  that  are  involved  in  the  woman's  attitude  to  her 
environment.  A  creature  of  impulse,  the  daughter  of  old  General 
Gabler  finds  herself  wedded  to  the  most  negative,  ineflficient,  and 
colorless  specimen  of  manhood  conceivable — ^the  conventional 
college  professor.  She,  with  her  splendid  body,  her  aggressive 
soul,  and  her  constant  need  of  excitement,  is  set  off  against  the 
weak,  watery,  old  womanish  Tesman.  And — a  contrast  within  a 
contrast — she  sees  her  husband  measured  on  the  same  scale  with 
such  men  as  Brack  and  Loveberg.  The  contrasts  thicken  as  the 
play  proceeds.  When  Hedda  thrusts  the  pistol  into  the  hands  of 
Loveberg  she  directs  him  to  "do  it  beautifully":  and  he  does — ^by 
shooting  himself,  in  the  bowels.  And  the  element  of  contrast  is 
carried  to  the  heights — or  to  the  depths — of  tragic  irony  when, 
just  after  Hedda  has  shot  herself  with  one  hand  while  playing  the 
piano  with  the  other.  Brack  exclaims:  "Nonsense!  Women  don't 
do  such  things!" 

Turning  to  one  of  the  supreme  comedies  of  manners,  Moli^re's 
Le  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,  we  find  that  here  again  the  element  of 
contrast  is  responsible  for  the  dramatic  values  of  the  play.  Compli- 
cations involve  contrasts;  and  humorous  complications  are  the 
stuff  of  which  comedy  is  made.  And  so,  in  the  story  of  Monsieur 
Jourdain  as  unfolded  by  Moliere.  we  find  a  series  of  contrasts  in 
situation,  in  character,  and  in  fundamental  ideas.  There,  for 
instance,  is  the  contrast  afforded  by  the  uneducated  educators 
whom  the  leading  character  brings  in  to  instruct  him.  Each  of 
them  is  an  admitted  master  in  his  own  field,  be  it  philosophy  or 
fencing;  yet  all  of  them  manifest  a  most  unacademic  impatience  of 
subjects  other  than  their  own  and  present  some  of  the  lamentable 


36  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

consequences  of  an  evil  that  was  not  by  any  means  confined  to 
Moliere's  generation,  the  evil  of  narrow  specialization.  Another 
contrast  is  that  of  unprincipled  gentility.  The  scions  of  the 
nobility,  of  whom  we  are  led  to  expect  honor  and  probity,  are 
singularly  lacking  in  both.  But  the  dominant  contrast,  and  one 
which  gives  point  and  pertinence  to  the  delicious  satire,  is  the  con- 
trast of  clothes  and  caste.  Monsieur  Jourdain  is  convinced  that 
it  is  the  clothes  that  make  the  man;  he  has  money  and  leisure  and 
the  material  surroundings  of  aristocracy;  but  he  cannot  live  down 
his  shopkeeping  origin.  He  is  an  embodiment  of  contrast — 
a  bourgeois  gentilhomme. 

A  form  of  dramatic  composition  which  must  of  necessity  be 
included  in  this  survey  is  the  artificial  comedy,  the  conventional 
society  play,  the  drama  of  epigram.  Its  most  successful  exponent 
is  Oscar  Wilde.  The  keynote  of  contrast  in  Lady  Windermere* s  Fan 
is  struck  by  "dear  Agatha,"  the  Duchess's  "little  chatterbox," 
who  on  every  occasion  and  under  all  manner  of  provocation  has 
nothing  to  say  but,  *'Yes,  mamma,"  and  who  thus  by  her  "clever 
talk"  elicits  the  maternal  rapture:  "My  dear  one!  You  always 
say  the  right  thing."  There,  with  perfectly  absurd  simplicity,  we 
have  the  very  bones  of  contrast — and  of  the  dramatic — laid  bare. 
The  speaker  is  a  nonentity,  as  is  her  mother  before  her;  and  as, 
indeed,  are  all  the  characters  in  the  play — ^with  one  exception. 
That  exception  is  Mrs.  Erlynne,  the  one  dramatic  character,  and 
the  one  character  in  whom  we  find  contrast.  And  the  one  con- 
trast in  character — the  woman  who,  though  far  from  being  a  model 
mother,  elects  to  become  a  social  pariah  to  secure  her  daughter's 
social  salvation — alligns  herself  with  the  underlying  dramatic 
idea  of  the  play,  that  of  a  daughter  being  rabidly  jealous  of  her 
own  mother.  The  merest  reflection  on  the  construction  of  the 
drama  will  serve  to  remind  us  that  the  climacteric  scene,  where  the 
presentation  fan  is  found  by  Lord  Windermere  in  Lord  Darlington's 
rooms,  is  a  scene  which  depends  entirely  for  its  effectiveness  on  the 
contrast  inherent  in  it.  Some  critics  have  been  unkind  enough 
to  say  that  plays  like  Lady  Windermere* s  Fan  live  by  reason  of  their 
i=  epigrams  alone.  Be  it  so;  contrast  is  the  essence  of  epigram.  It 
may  very  possibly  be  that  the  plays  of  Oscar  Wilde  are  true 
dramas  because  they  exploit  paradoxes  in  evening  dress. 

If  contrast  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  comedy  of  manners  and  the 
comedy  of  epigram,  it  is  not  less  in  evidence  in  the  comedy  of 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  37 

situation.  Goldsmith's  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  Sheridan's  School  for 
Scandal,  Hoyt's  A  Texas  Steer — ^all  three,  like  Are  You  a  Mason? 
and  Charley's  Aunt  and  Little  Miss  Brown  and  ever  so  many  others 
including  several  made  in  France  that  must  not  be  so  much  as 
named  among  us — ^win  the  tribute  of  our  smiles  and  our  laughter 
essentially  by  reason  of  the  humorous  contrasts  they  depict. 
They  may  incidentally  show  a  conflict  of  wills  and  they  may  be 
arranged  in  a  series  of  crises;  but  they  could  get  along  very  well 
without  either.  The  comic  scenes  that  live  in  our  memory  are 
scenes  depending  for  their  eiOficiency  on  contrast.  Thus,  the 
famous  screen  scene  in  The  School  for  Scandal  has  no  volitional 
element  in  it  whatever;  but  it  has  a  delightfully  bewildering  collec- 
tion of  contrasts  in  both  character  and  situation.  So,  too,  in  the 
farce  that  a  few  years  ago  set  the  United  States  in  a  roar,  Seven 
Days,  there  is  a  scene  consuming  several  minutes — ^not  of  stage 
time  but  of  standard  time — in  which  a  burglar  repeatedly  slides 
up  and  down  in  a  dumb  waiter  while  a  policeman  repeatedly 
rushes  down  and  up  a  parallel  pair  of  stairs.  Possibly  there  may 
be  a  conflict  of  wills  in  it,  but  the  audience  does  not  laugh  on 
that  account.  The  scene  is  funny  because  of  the  contrast,  a 
contrast  heightened  in  this  case  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  the 
burglar  wears  orthodox  felt  slippers  and  the  policeman  wears 
squeaking  number  twelves. 

We  should  have  to  look  far  for  a  better  example  of  the  romantic 
drama  than  Mr.  Justin  Huntley  McCarthy's  colorful  //  I  Were 
King;  and  in  this  genuinely  entertaining  story  of  Frangois  Villon 
we  have  yet  another  manifestation  of  contrast  constituting  the 
foundation  of  the  dramatic  art.  Villon  himself — ^sufficiently  so 
in  history  and  excessively  so  in  legend — is  a  veritable  child  of 
contrast.  He  is  a  master  of  arts  and  a  pickpocket,  a  cavalier 
and  a  tippler,  a  poet  and  a  brawler,  a  lover  and  a  rowdy.  Tattered 
and  tipsy,  this  scholar,  poet,  and  housebreaker  takes  his  stand 
in  a  disreputable  tavern  and  recites  his  ballade,  "If  Villon  were 
the  King  of  France,"  while  the  actual  King  of  France,  Louis  XI, 
lends  an  unsuspected  ear.  Louis — ^likewise  in  both  fact  and 
fiction — is  a  monarch  of  contrasts;  and  he  so  manages  matters 
that  the  next  morning  Villon  comes  forth  splendidly  attired, 
like  another  Christopher  Sly,  and  finds  himself,  by  royal  grace 
and  favor,  actually  the  shaper  of  France's  destinies — ^for  a  few 
brief  days.     And  so  the  stage  pictures  succeed  one  another,  each 


38  CONTRAST  IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

throwing  into  prominence  some  special  phase  of  the  general 
contrast  of  the  scapgrace  poet  who,  acting  in  the  name  of  the 
King,  is  more  kingly  than  he  in  diplomacy  and  love  and  war. 

Melodrama  is  just  now  a  term  of  reproach  and  Hterature  pro- 
fesses to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  We  might  urge  that  melo- 
drama finds  a  place  in  some  of  the  great  plays  of  the  world — 
including  the  Prometheus  Bound  and  Hamlet — and  that,  whatever 
its  literary  status  may  be,  its  dramatic  status  is  assured.  The 
popular  theater  has  generally  been  the  stamping  ground  of  melo- 
drama, and  we  can  hardly  afford  to  leave  out  the  popular  theater 
in  any  adequate  discussion  of  dramatic  values.  Such  being  the 
case,  can  we  find  any  melodramatic  scene — ranging  all  the  way 
from  the  medieval  miracle  plays  to  the  dramas  of  Lope  de  Vega 
and  thence  to  In  Old  Kentucky  and  Nelliey  the  Beautiful  Cloak 
Model — in  which  the  element  of  contrast  has  not  been  the  domin- 
ant element?  The  characters  in  the  most  beloved  species  of 
melodrama  are  paired  off  to  emphasize  contrast — the  hero  and 
the  villain,  the  heroine  and  the  adventuress,  the  defaulting  banker 
and  the  honest  policeman.  In  scene  the  melodrama  is  unsparing 
of  resources  to  secure  contrast,  breaking  the  heart  of  Boileau  and 
the  letter  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place  by  ranging  from  the 
peaceful  village  at  noon  to  Brooklyn  Bridge  at  midnight  and  the 
White  Mountains  three  years  later.  And  as  for  the  plot  of 
melodrama — the  type  of  plot  that  led  the  fourteenth  century 
crowds  agape  after  the  pageant  through  the  winding  streets  of 
Coventry,  that  fifty  years  ago  set  the  gallery  gods  stamping, 
hissing,  and  whistling  in  London  and  New  York,  and  that  even 
today,  though  carefully  disguised,  affords  surcease  to  the  frazzled 
nerves  of  the  commiserable  tired  business  man — ^what  manner 
of  plot  is  it  if  not  one  of  incessant,  bewildering,  breath-taking 
contrasts  ? 

But,  admitted  that  the  element  of  contrast  is  found  in  every 
species  of  dramatic  composition  and  that  it  appears  to  be  essential 
to  every  piece  of  organic  narrative  acted  on  a  stage  before  an 
audience,  it  is  a  true  differentia  of  the  dramatic  form?  Do  we 
not  find  the  element  of  contrast  likewise  in  the  epic,  the  novel, 
and  the  short  story?  Is  there  not  a  pronounced  element  of 
contrast  in  all  forms  of  art?  Is  contrast  a  distinctive  character- 
istic of  the  drama  ? 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  39 

Certainly,  contrast  exists  in  all  forms  of  art.  For  contrast 
exists  in  life;  and  if  we  accept  art,  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the 
word,  as  a  representation  and  interpretation  of  life,  we  must 
naturally  expect  to  find  in  art  a  reproduction  of  characteristics 
which  are  prominent  in  life  itself.  The  painter  acts  wisely  when 
he  masters  the  principles  of  contrast;  so  does  the  orator,  the  poet, 
the  sculptor,  the  architect,  the  novelist.  The  dramatist  is  by  no 
means  alone  in  his  dependence  upon  the  element  of  contrast. 
But  he  is  alone  in  his  essential  and  fundamental  dependence 
upon  it.  Contrast  is  often  found  in  the  novel,  but  it  is  not  essen- 
tial to  the  novel;  contrast  is  often  found  in  the  narrative  poem, 
but  it  is  not  essential  to  the  narrative  poem;  contrast  is  often 
found  in  the  musical  composition,  but  it  is  not  essential  to  the 
musical  composition.  But  contrast  is  always  found  in  the 
drama,  and  it  is  absolutely  essential  to  the  drama.  Retaining 
the  form  while  altering  the  substance  of  the  shibboleth  evolved 
from  Brunetiere's  theory  of  dramatic  art,  we  may  truly  say: 
No  contrast,  no  drama. 

In  this  connection  it  is  profitable  for  us  to  consider  for  a  moment 
a  hybrid  form  of  art  which  undoubtedly  has  its  place  in  the  world 
and  which  has  its  respectable  minority  of  defenders  and  advocates. 
I  refer  to  what  is  known  as  the  closet  drama.  The  closet  drama 
might  be  roughly  defined  as  a  poem  that  looks  like  a  play.  Some 
eminent  poets — Browning  and  Tennyson,  for  example — wrote 
excellent  closet  dramas;  Stafford  is  one,  Becket  is  another.  Both 
poems,  as  it  happens,  were  intended  by  their  authors  to  be  plays; 
but  neither  Browning  nor  Tennyson,  though  achieving  clear-cut 
characterization  and  recognizing  the  principles  of  proportion, 
was  capable  of  sustained  dramatic  effort.  The  poet  in  both  of 
them  was  constantly  coming  to  the  fore;  and  though  Stafford 
came  near  to  being  presented  on  the  stage  and  though  Becket — 
entirely  on  account  of  the  prestige  of  the  late  Sir  Henry  Irving — 
really  got  before  the  footlights,  both  poems  remain  poems  in 
substance  though  dramatic  in  form.  And  should  we  go  into  the 
matter  more  thoroughly  and  seek  to  discover  the  why  of  it,  we 
should  find  that  the  closet  drama  is  not  a  true  play  because  in  it 
there  is  not  sufficient  importance  given  to  the  element  of  contrast. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  by  no  means  an  uncommon  experience 
to  come  across  a  novel — or  rather  a  considerable  portion  of  a 
novel — that  would  obviously  lend  itself  to  dramatic  representa- 


40  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE' S 

tion.  Thus,  the  unforgettable  scene  in  Henry  Esmond  where 
Esmond  breaks  his  sword  in  the  presence  of  the  Young  Pretender 
is  recognized  as  intensely  dramatic;  and  it  is  so  because  of  the 
group  of  contrasts  underlying  it.  The  scene  is  dramatic  in  sub- 
stance though  not  dramatic  in  form.  Often,  indeed,  the  novelist, 
when  writing  a  scene  of  dramatic  substance  and  scope,  finds 
himself  approximating  to  the  conventionalities  of  dramatic 
dialogue.  Such  was  the  case  with  the  late  Frank  Norris  in  one 
of  the  most  impressive  chapters  of  The  Octopus.  He  had  conceived 
a  forceful,  symbolical  contrast;  side  by  side,  he  shows  us  one 
group  of  characters  feasting  sumptuously  in  the  glow  of  a  gorge- 
ously appointed  dining  room  and  another  group  of  characters 
starving  to  death  in  the  streets  of  San  Francisco.  It  is  significant 
that  in  presenting  the  contrasting  scenes,  so  eminently  dramatic 
in  substance,  Norris  seized  upon  a  distinctively  dramatic  form  of 
expression.  Those  few  pages  picked  up  at  random  would  lead 
the  reader  to  believe  that  both  in  form  and  substance  The  Octopus 
is  not  a  novel  but  a  play. 

The  process  of  looking  into  the  seeds  of  time  and  telling  which 
will  grow  and  which  will  not  finds  its  analogue  in  determining 
which  novels  will  and  which  will  not  successfully  undergo  the 
operation  of  dramatization.  But  of  one  thing  we  can  at  least  be 
sure:  No  novel  which  is  scant  in  the  element  of  contrast  will 
make  a  satisfactory  play.  This  is  by  no  means  the  only  considera- 
tion, but  it  is  the  vital  and  fundamental  consideration.  An 
impartial  survey  of  the  many  poor  novels  that  have  made  at 
least  passable  plays  and  of  the  several  passable  novels  that  have 
made  atrocious  plays  will  bring  us  back  to  the  insistent  formula: 
No  contrast,  no  drama. 

The  theory  of  contrast,  though  it  displaces  the  theories  set 
forth  by  Freytag,  Brunetidre,  and  Archer,  by  no  means  negatives 
them.  Many  an  excellent  piece  of  dramatic  composition  is 
arranged  according  to  the  Theile  und  Stellen  urged  by  the  German 
playwright  and  critic;  in  fact  it  may  be  said  that,  were  some  of 
our  present  day  dramatists  to  drill  themselves  more  rigidly  in  the 
processes  of  dramatic  construction  set  forth  in  Die  Technik  des 
Dramas,  audiences  would  suffer  less  and  art  would  profit  more. 
So  much  of  conflict  is  there  in  life  that  necessarily  we  look  for  it 
in  the  drama;  and  just  as  most  of  the  great  plays  of  the  past  turn 
on  some  phase  of  the  human  will,  so  in  all  probability  will  most 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  41 

of  the  great  plays  of  the  future.  And  so  with  the  crises,  the 
interesting  culminations  underscored  by  Mr.  Archer;  there  are 
critical  moments  in  life  and  therefore  in  art,  and  the  dramatist 
does  well  when  he  grasps  them. 

Nor  are  the  theories  of  Freytag,  Brunetiere,  and  Archer  in 
blank  and  utter  opposition  to  the  theory  of  contrast;  in  them  we 
may  see  the  truth,  as  in  a  glass  darkly.  The  elaborate  technical 
devices  for  which  Freytag  pleaded  derive  their  undoubted  value 
from  the  fact  that  they  serve  to  frame  and  set  off  the  imderlying 
contrasts  assumed  to  be  existing  in  the  material  of  the  drama. 
Given  a  group  of  contrasts  of  sufficient  variety  and  magnitude, 
they  are  in  many  cases  shown  forth  to  best  advantage  in  some 
such  scheme  of  arrangement  as  Freytag  laid  down.  If  we  probe 
behind  the  fact  of  volitional  conflict  or  volitional  action  generally, 
we  are  fairly  certain  to  come  upon  a  contrast  or  a  series  of  con- 
trasts which,  as  Hamlet  put  it,  puzzles  the  will;  hence  the  dramatic 
value  of  Brunetiere's  conflict  of  wills  lies  in  its  indication  of  con- 
trasts. And  as  for  the  crises  in  life  and  in  art,  what  are  they 
after  all  but  bursts  of  spray  produced  by  the  counterflow  of 
contrasts?  They  have  their  place  in  the  drama;  but  that  which 
makes  a  play  a  play,  that  which  furnishes  the  essential  and  under- 
lying constituent  of  the  dramatic,  is  contrast." 

"  Though  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  is,  to  my  best  knowledge,  the  first  writer 
to  set  forth  the  theory  of  contrast  as  a  true  differentia  of  the  drama,  he  is 
by  no  means  alone  in  the  recognition  of  contrast  as  a  desideratum  of  the 
dramatic  form.  Thus  Dr.  Albert  Vogele  in  his  masterly  study,  Der  Pessi- 
mismus  und  das  Tragische  in  Kunst  und  Leben  brings  out  the  importance 
of  discord  in  the  drama  and  calls  attention  to  its  existence  in  ancient  and 
modern  plays.  Contrast  in  the  drama  likewise  received  some  recognition 
from  A.  W.  Schlegel  in  his  commentary  on  Shakespeare's  Romeo  and  Juliet. 


ra. 

THE  ENGLISH  HISTORICAL  PLAYS 

The  aim  of  the  present  monograph  is  to  examine,  with  reference 
to  the  theory  of  dramatic  contrast,  Shakespeare's  use  of  his 
sources  in  the  EngHsh  historical  plays.  Our  purpose  is  not  to 
compare  Shakespeare's  dramas  with  the  actual  facts  of  history, 
but  to  study  his  sources  on  the  one  hand  and  his  plays  on  the 
other,  to  note  the  more  important  instances  in  which  he  diverged 
from  those  sources  and  to  discover  to  what  extent  the  theory  of 
contrast  offers  an  explanation  of  such  divergences. 

The  English  historical  plays  have  been  selected  for  this  investiga- 
tion for  three  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  the  sources  are  accessible 
and  the  fact  of  their  being  sources  is  universally  admitted.  Sec- 
ondly, in  the  historical  plays  Shakespeare  employed  for  the  most 
part  definite  historical  material  rather  than  plot  ideas  that  had 
previously  been  cast  in  fictional  form,  so  that  his  manipulation  of 
it  represents  his  own  choice  and  shaping  of  the  material.  Thirdly, 
the  historical  plays  were  written  during  a  period  (1591-16^2)  which 
roughly  covers  his  entire  career  as  a  dramatist,  and  hence  this 
study  should  afford  some  valuable  suggestions  bearing  upon  the 
genesis  of  Shakespeare's  artistic  ideals.  The  ten  historical  plays 
are  taken,  therefore,  not  in  the  order  in  which  they  correspond 
to  the  facts  of  English  history,  but  in  the  order  in  which  they  were 
written. 

Dates  of  Composition 

King  Henry  F/,  Parts  7,  II,  and  III. — Shakespearean  scholars 
are  all  but  unanimous  in  giving  1591  and  1592  as  the  approximate 
dates  of  authorship.  Shakespeare,  in  the  Epilogue  to  King 
Henry  F,  makes  it  clear  that  the  plays  commemorating  the  reign 
of  Henry  VI  antedated  that  play: 

Henry  the  Sixth,  in  infant  bands  crowned  King 
Of  France  and  England,  did  this  King  succeed; 

Whose  state  so  many  had  the  managing, 

That  they  lost  France  and  made  his  England  bleed  : 

Which  oft  our  stage  hath  shown. 

Greene's  posthumous  essay,  The  Groatsworth  of  Wit  bought  with  a 
Million  of  Repentencey  pubHshed  late  in  1592,  contains  an  obvious 
42 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  43 

parody  on  the  line  in  ///  Henry  VI y  **0  tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a 
woman's  hide."  (I.  iv.  137.)  Published  in  the  same  year  was 
Nash's  Pierce  Penniless,  in  which  we  have  a  distinct  reference  to 
the  Talbot  scenes  in  I  Henry  VI.! 

"How  would  it  have  joyed  brave  Talbot,  the  terror  of  the  French, 
to  think  that  after  he  had  been  two  hundred  years  in  his  tomb 
he  should  triumph  again  on  the  stage,  and  have  his  bones  embalmed 
with  the  tears  of  ten  thousand  spectators  (at  least  at  several 
times),  who,  in  the  tragedian  that  represents  his  person,  behold 
him  fresh  bleeding." 

An  entry  in  Henslowe's  diary  informs  us  that  Henry  VI  was 
performed  as  a  new  play  in  March,  1591;  and,  of  course,  the  ad- 
mittedly Shakespearean  passages  in  the  three  plays  reveal  their 
emanation  from  a  very  early  stage  in  his  career  as  a  dramatist. 

King  Richard  II. — ^The  composition  of  this  play  is  assigned  to 
1593.  Scholars  find  in  it  the  influence  of  Marlowe's  Edward  11, 
which  dates  from  about  1590,  and  the  source  of  parallel  and  sup- 
posedly plagiarized  passages  in  Daniel's  Civil  Wars  (1595).  Two 
quartos  of  King  Richard  II,  one  of  them  with  Shakespeare's  name 
on  the  title-page,  were  published  in  1597.  In  this,  as  in  numerous 
other  instances,  the  presentation  of  the  play  preceded  by  several 
years  its  first  appearance  in  print. 

King  Richard  III. — The  date  of  composition  is  set  about  1594. 
In  this  play  Shakespeare  shows  himself  most  strongly  under  the 
influence  of  Marlowe,  Richard  in  his  unrelieved  villainy  being  in 
conception  closely  akin  to  the  "ideal  villain"  beloved  of  Marlowe. 
The  play  first  appeared  in  print  in  1597. 

King  John. — ^This  is  one  of  the  plays  mentioned  by  Francis 
Meres  in  the  Palladis  Tamia  of  1598.  Relying  solely  on  internal 
evidence,  critics  place  its  date  of  composition  about  1595. 

/  Henry  IV. — ^The  date  of  composition  is  assigned  to  1596  or 
1597.  Among  the  pieces  of  external  evidence  cited  in  support  of 
that  generally  accepted  view  are:  A  mention  in  the  Palladis 
Tamia;  a  reference  to  Falstaff  in  Jonson's  Every  Man  Out  of  His 
Humour,  staged  in  1599;  a  reference  to  the  drawer  Francis  in  the 
Pilgrimage  to  Parnassus,  the  Cambridge  Christmas  play  of  1598; 
two  allusions  in  the  play  to  current  events — the  Spanish  expedition 
in  1596  (I.  1.)  and  the  corn  famine  of  the  same  year  (II.  1.). 

II  Henry  IV. — ^This  play,  "at  once  the  supplement  and  epilogue 
of  the  first  part,  and  the  preparation  for  the  ensuing  dramatic 


44  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

history  of  Henry  V,"  was  written  about  two  years  later.     Jonson 
has  a  reference  to  Justice  Silence  in  Every  Man  Out  of  His  Humour. 
King  Henry  V, — Sufficient  evidence  of  the  date  of  composition 
is  furnished  in  the  Prologue  to  the  fifth  act. 

The  general  of  our  gracious  empress, 

As  in  good  time  he  may,  from  Ireland  coming, 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword, 

is  an  unmistakable  allusion  to  the  famous  expedition  of  the  Earl 
of  Essex;  so  the  play  must  have  been  acted  some  time  between 
March  27  and  September  28,  in  1599. 

King  Henry  VIII. — ^The  Shakespearean  portions  of  this  play 
bear  out  the  critics  in  their  contention  that  Henry  VIII  came  very 
late  in  the  dramatist's  career.  The  eulogy  of  King  James  in  the 
fifth  act  points  to  a  date  of  composition  subsequent  to  the  death  of 
Queen  Elizabeth.  We  have  an  unusual  piece  of  external  evidence 
in  the  destruction  by  fire  of  the  Globe  Theater  on  June  29,  1613, 
while  this  play  was  being  enacted  for  the  first  time.  The  assigned 
date  of  composition  is  therefore  1612. 

While  scholars  differ  somewhat  as  to  the  exact  years  in  which  the 
historical  plays  were  written,  they  are  practically  unanimous  in 
assigning  them  to  the  order  of  composition  just  indicated.  Here 
and  there  is  raised  a  dissenting  voice,  as  when  Sir  Sidney  Lee 
holds  that  King  Richard  III  was  written  earUer  than  King 
Richard  II;  but,  in  general  it  is  agreed  that  Shakespeare  served 
his  apprenticeship  in  writing  the  three  parts  of  King  Henry  VI, 
that  he  was  strongly  influenced  by  Marlowe  in  King  Richard  II 
and  King  Richard  III,  that  he  tentatively  struck  an  epic  note  in 
King  John  and  carried  it,  through  the  two  parts  of  King  Henry 
IVy  to  a  glorious  fulness  in  King  Henry  V,  and  that  very  late  in 
his  career  as  a  dramatist  he  collaborated  in  writing  King  Henry 
VI IL  All  in  all,  we  are  warranted  in  accepting  the  approximate 
dates  and  the  general  order  of  composition  as  a  sufficient  chron- 
ological basis  for  our  proposed  inquiry  into  Shakespeare's  manipula- 
tion of  his  material. 


IV. 
THE  THREE  PLAYS  OF  KING  HENRY  VI 

Our  investigation  of  the  three  parts  of  King  Henry  VI  is 
entered  upon  with  the  assumption  that,  though  it  is  more  than 
likely  that  they  are  the  work  of  several  hands,  Shakespeare  had  a 
considerable  part  in  their  composition.  Not  all  critics  take  the 
extreme  view  of  Malone  {Dissertation  on  the  Three  Parts  of  King 
Henry  VI) :  "My  hypothesis  then  is,  that  the  first  part  of  King 
Henry  VI  as  it  now  appears  (of  which  no  quarto  copy  is  extant), 
was  the  entire  or  nearly  the  entire  production  of  some  ancient 
dramatist;  that  The  Whole  Contention  of  the  Two  Houses  of  York 
and  Lancaster,  etc.,  written  probably  before  the  year  1590,  and 
printed  in  quarto  in  1600,  was  also  the  composition  of  some 
writer  who  preceded  Shakspeare;  and  that  from  this  piece,  which 
is  in  two  parts  (the  former  of  which  is  entitled.  The  first  part  of  the 
Contention  of  the  two  famous  Houses  of  Yorke  and  Lancaster,  with 
the  death  of  the  good  duke  Humphrey,  etc.,  and  the  latter,  The  true 
Tragedie  of  Richard  duke  of  Yorke,  and  the  death  of  the  good  King 
Henrie  the  Sixt),  our  poet  formed  two  plays,  entitled  the  Second 
and  Third  Parts  of  King  Henry  VI  as  they  appear  in  the  first 
folio  edition  of  his  works." 

Owing  to  dearth  of  external  evidence,  any  attempt  to  decide 
more  definitely  on  the  authorship  of  these  plays  is  necessarily 
futile;  and  tests  made  solely  on  data  furnished  by  internal  evidence 
are  quite  as  useless,  since  the  Shakespeare  who  here  tries  his 
'prentice  hand  is  far  from  being  the  Shakespeare  who  later  is  to 
limn  for  us  the  heroic  figure  of  King  Henry  V  and  search  out  the 
secrets  of  lago's  heart.  The  common  denominator  of  Shakes- 
pearean criticism  seems  to  be  the  assumption  that,  though  it  is 
very  possible  that  Shakespeare  revamped  older  plays  and  had 
collaborators  in  writing  these  three  dramas,  there  is  enough  of 
his  work  in  them  to  warrant  us  in  including  them  among  his 
complete  works.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  question  of  authorship 
is  not  a  vital  one  in  this  study.  Courtenay's  attitude,  as  expressed 
in  his  Commentaries  (vol.  1,  p.  213)  is  deserving  of  emulation: 
"Since,  however,  these  plays  are  included  in  all  editions  of  Shak- 
speare's  works,  and  are  read  with  the  rest,  .  .  .  it  is  equally 
my  business  to  examine  them,  whether  he  wrote  them  or  not. 

45 


I 


46  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

And  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  decide  the  question  when  I 
speak  of  the  author  as  Shakspeare.'*  All  that  we  insist  upon  is, 
that  to  whatever  extent  Shakespeare  was  indebted  to  earlier 
dramatic  versions  of  the  stories  circling  about  the  Wars  of  the 
Roses  and  other  events  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI,  he  exercised  the 
final  decision  as  to  what  form  the  material  would  take  in  the 
three  plays  directly  associated  with  his  name. 

The  material  employed  by  Shakespeare,  either  or  both  directly 
and  indirectly,  in  the  three  plays  of  King  Henry  VI  we  find  in 
Holinshed's  Chronicles.  In  general,  the  plays  follow  the  chronicles 
closely;  but  they  necessarily  make  a  selection  of  material,  follow 
a  different  principle  of  proportion,  indulge  in  numerous  anachron- 
isms and  in  places  introduce  incidents  which  are  not  warranted 
in  the  historical  sources  of  the  dramas.  Shakespeare's  anachron- 
isms, which  are  characteristic  of  all  the  historical  plays,  we  shall 
reserve  for  further  discussion;  our  purpose  here  is  to  investigate 
his  manipulation  of  his  material  and  in  particular  to  find  out  to 
what  extent  his  deviations  from  Holinshed  may  be  accounted  for 
on  the  hypothesis  of  dramatic  contrast. 

In  reviewing  the  loosely  constructed  plays  of  King  Henry  VI 
we  find  ourselves  impressed  with  four  sets  or  series  of  contrasts, 
which  we  may  conveniently  label  as  follows :  The  War  of  the  Roses, 
the  Winchester-Gloucester  Feud,  the  Pucelle-Talbot  Episodes 
and  the  Queen  Margaret  Scenes.  Each  of  these  will,  on  analysis, 
reveal  an  effort — ^perhaps  unconcious — on  the  part  of  the  dramatist 
to  present  contrasting  characters  in  action;  and  examination  of 
the  plays  in  reference  to  the  corresponding  passages  in  Holinshed 
will  show  that  it  was  very  largely  by  the  principle  of  dramatic 
contrast  that  the  dramatist  was  governed  in  selecting  his  material 
and  in  inventing  episodes. 

The  War  of  the  Roses  has  its  inception  in  the  Temple  Garden 
(/  Henry  VI,  II,  iv.),  where  the  partisans  of  the  rival  houses  of 
York  and  Lancaster  discuss  the  right  of  Henry's  succession  to  the 
crown  of  England.  In  the  midst  of  the  peaceful  garden  are  heard 
the  first  ominous  growlings  of  civil  strife.  The  other  participants 
in  the  scene  group  themselves  about  the  two  central  figures, 
Richard  Plantagenet  and  the  Earl  of  Somerset.  The  plucking  of 
the  roses  with  its  inherent  contrast  is  emphasized  with  a  reserve  and 
a  simplicity  that  makes  this  scene  easily  the  most  artistic  in  the 
three  plays.     Says  Plantagenet : 


I 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  47 

Let  him  that  is  a  true-born  gentleman, 
And  stands  upon  the  honour  of  his  birth. 
If  he  suppose  that  I  have  pleaded  truth. 
From  off  this  briar  pluck  a  white  rose  with  me. 

Whereupon  pleads  Somerset: 

Let  him  that  is  no  coward  nor  no  flatterer, 
But  dare  maintain  the  party  of  the  truth. 
Pluck  a  red  rose  from  off  this  thorn  with  me. 

And  a  little  later,  after  the  noblemen  present  have  definitely 
taken  sides  by  plucking  roses  red  and  white,  the  following  dialogue 
takes  place  between  Somerset  and  Plantagenet: 

Plan.     Now,  Somerset,  where  is  your  argument? 

Som.      Here  in  my  scabbard,  mediating  that 

Shall  dye  your  white  rose  in  a  bloody  red. 

Plan.     Meantime  your  cheeks  do  counterfeit  our  roses; 
For  pale  they  look  with  fear,  as  witnessing 
The  truth  of  our  side. 

Som,  No,  Plantagenet, 

*Tis  not  for  fear  but  anger  that  my  cheeks 
Blush  for  pure  shame  to  counterfeit  our  roses, 
And  yet  thy  tongue  will  not  confess  thy  error. 

Plan.     Hath  not  thy  rose  a  canker,  Somerset? 

Som.      Hath  not  thy  rose  a  thorn,  Plantagenet  ? 

Plan.     Ay,  sharp  and  piercing,  to  maintain  his  truth; 

Whiles  thy  consuming  canker  eats  his  falsehood. 

Som.      Well,  I'll  find  friends  to  wear  my  bleeding  roses, 
That  shall  maintain  what  I  have  said  is  true. 
Where  false  Plantagenet  dare  not  be  seen. 

This  passage  illustrates,  among  other  things,  the  sometimes 
irritating  fondness  of  the  young  Shakespeare  to  play  upon  words 
and  to  indulge  freely  in  verbal  antitheses — characteristics  which 
he  never  entirely  lost  but  which  are  very  pronoimced  in  the 
English  historical  plays.  It  may  be  well  at  this  point  to  call 
attention  to  the  fact  that  antithesis  is  essentially  founded  upon 
contrast  and  that  many  a  scene  of  undeniable  dramatic  force, 
both  in  Shakespeare's  plays  and  out  of  them,  is  simply  an  extended 
antithesis,  an  antithesis  cast  into  narrative  sequence.  The 
episode  of  the  plucking  of  the  roses  in  the  Temple  Garden  has  no 
mention  in  Holinshed  and  no  warrant  in  history;  it  is  a  delightful 
invention  of  the  dramatist  to  typify  an  element  of  contrast. 


48  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE' S 

In  succeeding  scenes  (/  Henry  VI,  III.  iv.  and  IV.  i.),  we  find 
a  further  visualization  of  the  contrast  involved  in  the  War  of  the 
Roses  in  the  quarrel  between  two  members  of  the  rival  factions, 
Vernon  and  Basset.  Both  are  historical  personages  who  took 
opposite  sides  in  the  civil  strife,  but  Shakespeare  invented  their 
personal  quarrel. 

The  War  of  the  Roses  reaches  its  culmination  in  the  second 
act  of  III  Henry  VI  when  the  white  rose  blooms,  though  drenched 
in  blood,  and  the  red  rose  hangs  limp  in  defeat.  A  notable  varia- 
tion of  Shakespeare  from  his  sources  occurs  in  II.  ii.  81  ff.  where  he 
introduces  the  leaders  of  the  two  houses  and  allows  them  to  engage 
in  a  spirited  and  unseemly  wrangle.  The  scene  does  not  percept- 
ibly advance  the  dramatic  action  of  the  play,  it  does  not  serve 
to  elucidate  character,  it  does  not  by  any  means  contribute  to 
what  students  of  the  drama  sometimes  designate  '^relief";  but  it 
most  emphatically  does  bring  out  and  sustain  the  contrast  of  the 
War  of  the  Roses,  and  in  such  capacity  it  has  its  dramaturgical 
justification. 

A  similar  explanation  must  account  for  two  contrasting  episodes 
in  II.  V.  where  a  son  discovers  that  he  has  killed  his  own  father, 
and  a  father  discovers  that  he  has  killed  his  own  son.  If  Shake- 
speare had  any  historical  basis  for  this  dual  scene,  it  is  to  be  found 
only  in  the  general  remarks  made  by  Hall  concerning  the  Battle 
of  Towton  {^5Q): 

"This  conflict  was  in  manner  unnatural,  for  in  it  the  son  fought 
against  the  father,  the  brother  against  the  brother,  the  nephew 
against  the  uncle,  and  the  tenant  against  his  lord." 

Here  we  have  the  antithesis  of  civil  war  formulated  by  the 
chronicler  and  visualized  by  the  dramatist.  And  the  contrast  is 
enhanced  by  the  presence  of  King  Henry,  who  laments  the  unhappy 
occurrences  of  which  he  himself  has  been  the  unwitting  occasion. 

The  War  of  the  Roses  shows  mainly  Shakespeare's  invention  of 
episodes  to  illustrate  dramatic  contrast;  the  Winchester-Gloucester 
Feud  affords  an  excellent  example  of  his  modification  and  shaping 
of  existing  material  for  the  same  purpose.  Here,  as  in  so  many 
other  instances  throughout  the  historical  plays,  though  Shakespeare 
distorts  isolated  facts,  he  succeeds  in  bringing  out  the  general 
truth.  Henry  Beaufort,  Bishop  of  Winchester  and  later  Cardinal, 
the  grand  uncle  of  King  Henry  VI,  is  described  by  Holinshed  as 
"haughty  in  stomach,  high  in  countenance,  disdainful  to  his  kin," 


d 


HISTORICAL   PL.\YS  49 

and  strong  "in  malice  and  mischief"  (212) ;  Humphrey  Plantagenet, 
Duke  of  Gloucester  and  uncle  of  the  King,  was  indeed  "the  good 
Duke  Humphrey. "^^  The  enmity  between  these  two  eminent 
men  is  one  of  the  scandals  of  English  history.  And  it  is  true  that 
the  churchman,  by  devious  ways,  succeeded  in  driving  his  nephew 
into  disgrace.  Shakespeare  puts  the  two  noblemen  in  strikmg 
contrast. 

Thus,  he  gives  Winchester  an  occasion  which  did  not  exist  in 
fact  for  increased  resentment  against  Gloucester.  Soliloquizes 
the  Bishop  (/  Eenry  VI.  I.  i.) : 

Each  hath  his  place  and  function  to  attend. 
I  am  left  out;  for  me  nothing  remains. 
But  long  I  will  not  be  Jack  out  of  office. 

In  both  Hall  (115)  and  Holinshed  (III,  585)  it  is  expressly  stated 
that  the  custody  of  the  youthful  Henry  VI  was  appointed  to 
Henry  Beaufort,  Bishop  of  Winchester.  He  was  not,  therefore, 
"Jack  out  of  office." 

In  the  second  act  of  II  Henry  VI  (scene  i)  the  dramatist  brings 
the  Winchester-Gloucester  Feud  to  focus.  In  the  royal  presence 
the  lords  protectors  bandy  words  and  both  so  far  forget  their 
dignity  that  they  arrange  for  a  duel.  A  contrast  within  a  contrast 
is  furnished  in  the  Cardinal's  readiness  to  take  the  sword  and  the 
Duke's  fluency  in  quoting  churchly  Latin.  A  careful  reading  of 
the  entire  scene,  which  is  considerably  above  the  level  of  the  play 
in  dramatic  effectiveness,  will  show  that  its  success  is  conditioned 
by  the  contrast  pointed  out  between  the  rival  nobles. 

To  make  the  ultimate  defeat  of  the  Duke  in  the  Winchester- 
Gloucester  Feud  more  apparent,  Shakespeare  juggles  his  dates 
and  has  Winchester  deposed  from  the  protectorship  on  the  occasion 
of  his  wife's  trial  for  witchcraft  (//  Henry  VI.  II.  iii.).  And  in  the 
scene  (III.  i.)  in  which  the  unfortunate  Duke  is  arrested  on  a 
charge  of  high  treason,  Shakespeare  has  builded  upon  Holinshed's 
material  with  the  obvious  purpose  of  setting  the  nobility  of  the 
defeated  man  in  efiFective  contrast  with  the  malice  of  his  arch- 
enemy, the  Cardinal. 

We  now  come  to  a  consideration  of  what  we  have  termed  the 
Pucelle-Talbot  Episodes.     The  character  of  the  Blessed  Jeanne 


"  For  a  succinct  account  of  his  practical  interest  in  schools  and  scholars 
see  Einstein's  Italian  Renaissance  in  England,  chap.  I.  Gloucester's  private 
life  was^by  no  means  flawless. 


50  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

d'Arc  as  depicted  in  /  Henry  VI  has  been  justly  described  as  a  libel 
upon  the  truth  of  history,  and  eflForts  have  been  made  time  and 
again  to  show  either  that  Shakespeare  did  not  write  the  objection- 
able play  or  else  that  in  writing  it  he  fell  a  victim  to  national 
prejudice.  I  here  venture  to  suggest  an  interpretation  of  the 
Pucelle  scenes  which  is  deduced  from  Mr.  Hamilton's  theory  of 
contrast  in  the  drama. 

In  the  Pucelle-Talbot  Episodes  (Z  Henry  VI  I.  ii.,  I.  iv.,  I.  v., 
I.  vi.,  II.  i.,  II.  ii.,  III.  ii.,  IV.  i.,  IV.  v.  vi.  vii.,  V.  iii.  V.  iv.)  we 
find  a  more  or  less  conscious  effort  on  the  part  of  the  dramatist 
to  personify  a  contrast  that  runs  through  the  play.  The  general 
contrast  is  England  versus  France.  The  English  King  is  set  over 
against  Charles  the  Dauphin,  but  that  contrast  of  personality — 
owing  largely  to  the  weak  character  of  Henry — is  not  sufficient 
to  symbolize  the  international  antithesis;  at  least,  not  from  the 
English  point  of  view,  which  is  openly  the  point  of  view  of  the 
dramatist.  Therefore,  he  makes  the  contrast  take  the  form  of 
conflict  and  to  emphasize  and  sustain  the  contrast  he  singles  out 
a  champion  on  either  side.  For  England  he  selects  Lord  Talbot, 
for  France  la  Pucelle. 

Shakespeare  here  faced  a  problem  that  a  superficial  reading  of 
/  Henry  VI  will  not  reveal;  one  must  have  had  some  actual 
experience  in  the  construction  of  plays  and  some  practical  knowl- 
edge of  what  is  and  what  is  not  theatrically  effective  to  be  in  a 
position  to  understand  the  dramaturgic  necessity,  in  view  of  the 
facts  in  the  case,  of  Shakespeare's  doing  what  he  did.  King 
Henry,  after  whom  the  play  is  named,  should  be  the  hero  of  the 
drama  and  the  champion  of  England;  but  he  is  neither.  There- 
fore Talbot,  who  fills  both  roles  in  lieu  of  the  King,  must  be  as 
nearly  as  possible  an  ideal  hero  and  warrior  and  man;  and  one 
way  to  make  him  such  is  to  have  his  adversary  on  the  French 
side  assume  the  proportions  of  an  ideal  villain.  Talbot,  the  real 
hero  of  the  play,  must  be  painted  white;  and  to  intensify  his 
whiteness,  la  Pucelle  must  be  painted  black.  The  result  may  not 
be  pretty  and  it  may  not  be  true;  but  to  the  audience  for  whom 
Shakespeare  wrote — and  in  matters  pertaining  to  the  drama  we 
cannot  afford  to  ignore  the  audience — it  was  rattling  good  English 
drama. 

And  so  we  find  Shakespeare  (I.  iv.)  early  enlisting  our  sympathy 
for  Talbot  by  having  that  hero  relate  to  Lord  Salisbury  and  a 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  51 

group  of  English  knights  at  Orleans  the  details  of  his  sufferings 
and  humiliations  while  in  the  enemy's  hands,  of  the  "scoffs  and 
scorns  and  contumelious  taunts."  And  that  we  may  not  fall 
into  the  mistake,  however  remote  the  possibility,  of  mistaking 
this  hero  for  a  weakling  like  unto  his  King,  the  dramatist  has  him 
give  details  of  his  prowess,  too: 

Then  broke  I  from  the  ofl&cers  that  led  me. 

And  with  my  nails  digg'd  stones  out  of  the  ground. 

To  hurl  at  the  beholders  of  my  shame: 

My  grisly  countenance  made  others  fly; 

None  durst  come  near  for  fear  of  sudden  death. 

Both  champions  being  introduced,  Shakespeare  has  them  meet 
in  an  indecisive  duel  (I.  v.),  in  the  course  of  which  Talbot  takes 
pains  to  remind  the  audience  that  Jeanne  is  a  "witch"  and  a 
"strumpet."  And  in  order  to  bring  out  properly  the  unworthy 
character  of  the  French  adversaries,  Shakespeare  immediately 
afterward  (I.  vi.)  shows  us  Charles  the  Dauphin  and  the  French 
leaders  threatening  to  confer  all  but  divine  honors  on  the  same 
Pucelle.     Says  Charles: 

'Tis  Joan,  not  we,  by  whom  the  day  is  won; 
For  which  I  will  divide  my  crown  with  her, 
And  all  the  priests  and  friars  in  my  realm 
Shall  in  procession  sing  her  endless  praise. 
A  statlier  pyramis  to  her  I'll  rear 
Than  Rhodope's  or  Memphis'  ever  was : 
In  memory  of  her  when  she  is  dead. 
Her  ashes,  in  an  urn  more  precious 
Than  the  rich-jewel'd  coffer  of  Darius, 
Transported  shall  be  at  high  festivals 
Before  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 
No  longer  on  Saint  Denis  will  we  cry, 
But  Joan  la  Pucelle  shall  be  France's  saint. 

It  need  hardly  be  stated  that  there  is,  neither  in  Holinshed  nor 
elsewhere,  any  warrant  for  this  scene. 

Having  seen  that  the  hero  Talbot  has  suffered  and  is  brave, 
the  audience  must  now  have  evidence  of  his  cleverness;  and  so, 
out  of  the  whole  cloth,  Shakespeare  manufactures  that  scene 
(II.  iii.)  in  which  the  English  champion  outwits  the  mythical 
Countess  of  Auvergne  and  so  impresses  that  lady  with  his  sterUng 
qualities  that  she,  who  intended  to  make  him  her  prisoner, 
expresses  her  delight  at  having  an  opportunity  of  feasting  so  great 


52  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE' 8 

a  warrior  in  her  house.  And  that  still  another  angle  of  the 
hero's  character  may  be  seen,  Talbot  must,  not  without  some 
very  theatrical  rhetoric,  in  presence  of  the  King  and  court,  tear 
the  knightly  garter  from  the  recreant  leg  of  Fastolfe  (IV.  i.).  To 
what  extent  Shakespeare  in  this  instance  stretched  his  sources 
may  be  seen  from  Holinshed's  statement  (III.  601.)  that  not 
Talbot,  but  Bedford,  took  from  Sir  John  Fastolfe  "the  image  of 
St.  George  and  his  garter;  though  afterward,  by  means  of  friends 
and  apparent  causes  of  good  excuse,  the  same  were  to  him  again 
delivered,  against  the  mind  of  the  Lord  Talbot. ^^  Finally,  accepting 
a  truthful  but  inadequate  historical  basis  in  Holinshed,  Shakes- 
peare paints  in  warm  tones  the  closing  scenes  of  his  hero's  life 
(IV.  v.,  vi.,  vii.),  beautifully  mingling  love  and  pathos  and  intro- 
ducing a  minor  contrast  in  the  person  of  the  old  warrior's  stripling 
son.  His  boy's  dead  body  held  close  to  his  breast,  Talbot  dies 
with  a  verbal  contrast  on  his  lips: 

Now  my  old  arms  are  young  John  Talbot's  grave. 

In  contrast  with  Talbot's  noble  strategy  in  the  castle  at  Auvergne 
is  the  ignoble  strategy  whereby  la  Pucelle  succeeds  in  getting 
her  soldiers  into  Rouen  (III.  ii.).  In  contrast  with  Talbot's 
greatness  in  stripping  the  cowardly  Fastolfe  of  the  insignia  of 
knighthood  is  la  Pucelle's  smallness  in  winning  Burgundy  over  to 
the  side  of  the  Dauphin  (III.  iii.).  Here  is  another  of  Shake- 
speare's deliberate  anachronisms,  since  Jeanne  d'Arc's  death 
preceded  by  four  years  Burgundy's  reconciliation  with  Charles. 
The  scene  (V.  iii.)  wherein  la  Pucelle  holds  converse  with  her  fiends 
serves  to  make  her  assume  an  even  darker  hue  than  formerly; 
and  as  for  the  unspeakably  revolting  episode  of  her  examination 
before  Warwick  and  the  Duke  of  York,  it  is  undeniably  in  gruesome 
contrast  with  the  death  scene  of  the  good  Talbot. 

In  his  contrast  between  Talbot  and  la  Pucelle  Shakespeare 
clearly  showed  two  tricks  of  the  amateur:  He  put  his  colors  on  too 
thick,  and  he  was  more  free  with  his  black  paint  than  with  his 
white  paint.  Talbot,  though  something  of  a  monstrosity  of 
goodness,  is  more  nearly  human  than  la  Pucelle.  Deeper  was  his 
knowledge  of  life  and  more  skilled  his  craftsman's  hand  when  later 
on  Shakespeare  had  recourse  to  the  same  sort  of  dramatic  contrast 
in  Julius  Caesar.  There  he  uses  his  white  paint  on  the  Brutus  of 
history,  and  on  the  Caesar  of  history  his  black  paint — or  is  it  an 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  53 

inoflFensive  drab?  At  all  events  in  the  case  of  Julius  Caesar  he 
presented  his  contrast  of  character  with  more  of  artistic  reserve. 

A  further  instance  of  Shakespeare's  manipulation  of  his  materials 
with  a  view  to  dramatic  contrast  is  found  in  the  Queen  Margaret 
Scenes.  This  gifted,  beautiful,  and  masculine  woman  he  makes 
the  center  of  a  series  of  dramatic  events,  including  her  amour  with 
the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  her  personal  spite  against  the  Duchess  of 
Gloucester,  and  her  sharply  defined  contrast  in  personahty  with 
her  royal  husband. 

For  the  attachment  existing  between  the  Queen  and  Suffolk  the 
dramatist  found  in  Holinshed  some  slight  foundation,  but  certainly 
one  not  sufficient  to  justify  the  lengths  to  which  he  carries  it  in 
these  plays.  Suffolk  did  indeed  arrange  for  Henry's  marriage 
with  Margaret  of  Anjou,  but  he  certainly  did  not  carry  out  his 
commission  with  the  wealth  of  amorous  details  given  in  /  Henry  VI 
(V.  iii.).  Shakespeare  has  the  impressionable  Duke  fall  precipi- 
tately in  love  with  the  lady  who  is  destined  to  be  England's  Queen, 
and  in  //  Henry  VI  he  gives  us  rather  definitely  to  understand  that 
Suffolk's  love  was  not  unrequited.  We  find  no  account  taken  in 
the  plays  of  the  historical  facts  that  Suffolk  was  some  years  older 
than  Margaret's  father.  King  Regnier  of  Provence,  and  that  his 
wife,  Alice  Chaucer,  accompanied  the  Enghsh  nobleman  on  the 
occasion  of  his  visit  to  France  as  the  proxy  of  King  Henry.  In 
the  scenes  devoted  to  the  relations  of  Margaret  and  Suffolk  (not- 
ably /  Henry  VI,  V.  iii.  and  //  Henry  VI,  III.  ii.),  Shakespeare, 
like  so  many  other  dramatists,  has  sensed  the  underlying  contrasts 
existing  in  love — especially  in  ilhcit  love;  and  the  dramatic  value 
is  in  this  case  considerably  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  Margaret  in 
her  softer  moods  is  in  striking  contrast  with  the  vigorous  virago 
she  shows  herself  in  other  parts  of  the  plays. 

With  a  skill  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  Shakespeare  brings  out 
the  personal  animus  existing  between  the  Queen  and  the  Duchess 
of  Gloucester  and  makes  of  it  the  unfaihng  dramatic  theme  of 
woman  against  woman.  Eleanor  dreams — ^her  dream  as  often  the 
offspring  of  desire — ^that  she  is  seated 

In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 
And  in  that  chair  where  kings  and  queens  are  crown'd: 
Where  Henry  and  dame  Margaret  Imeel'd  to  me, 
And  on  my  head  did  set  the  diadem. 

{II  Henry  VI,  I.  ii.) 


54  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

And  Margaret  admits  to  Suflfolk: 

Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half  so  much 

As  that  proud  dame,  the  lord  protector's  wife. 

She  sweeps  it  through  the  court  with  troops  of  ladies, 

More  hke  an  empress  than  Duke  Humphrey's  wife: 

Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen: 

She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back. 

And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  our  poverty : 

Shall  I  not  live  to  be  avenged  on  her  ? 

Contemptuous  base-born  callet  as  she  is. 

She  vaunted  'mongst  her  minions  t'other  day, 

The  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing  gown 

Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's  lands. 

(//  Henry  VI,  I.  iii.) 

This  ladies'  battle  reaches  its  climax  when  in  the  presence  of  the 
King  and  court  Queen  Margaret  gives  the  Duchess  a  box  on  the 
ear.  Shakespeare  shows  the  Queen  and  Suffolk  taking  steps  to 
discover  the  Duchess  in  the  midst  of  the  evil  practices  which 
brought  her  to  disgrace.  Dates  are  badly  twisted  to  bring  about 
this  dramatic  contrivance.  In  point  of  fact,  Eleanor  of  Gloucester 
had  been  arraigned  and  sentenced  in  1441,  four  years  previous  to 
Margaret's  coronation  in  May,  1445.  So  the  woman-against- 
woman  strand  of  plot  is  a  manifest  fabrication. 

Another  and  contrasting  aspect  of  the  character  of  the  Queen 
Margaret  of  the  plays  is  furnished  in  the  scene  wherein  she  mani- 
fests her  vindictiveness  and  warlike  mettle.  Holinshed  gives  two 
versions  of  the  fall  of  York — one  that  he  died  on  the  field  of 
battle,  the  other  that  he  became  the  Queen's  prisoner  and  as  such 
suffered  the  molehill  coronation  and  other  indignities.  It  is 
significant  that  the  latter  version  Shakespeare  selected  as  better 
suited  for  dramatic  presentation;  and  he  failed  not  to  embellish 
it  freely  the  more  decisively  to  bring  out  the  contrast  between  the 
fallen  standard  bearer  of  the  House  of  York  and  the  triumphant 
heroine  of  the  House  of  Lancaster  (III  Henry  VI,  I.  iv.).  No 
historical  foundation  exists  for  York's  lengthy  reply  to  Margaret's 
gibes  and  taunts;  but  from  the  dramaturgic  point  of  view  it  serves 
to  stress  the  contrast. 

The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  Margaret's  intrepid  battle  speech 
before  the  fatal  fight  at  Tewksbury  {III  Henry  F/,  V.  iv.),  a 
speech  which  prompts  the  young  Prince  Edward  to  exclaim: 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  55 

Methinks  a  woman  of  this  valiant  spirit 
Should,  if  a  coward  heard  her  speak  these  words. 
Infuse  his  breast  with  magnanimity, 
And  make  him,  naked,  foil  a  man  at  arms. 

According  to  Hall  (297),  Margaret's  attitude  on  this  occasion  was 
far  otherwise.  "She,  like  a  woman  all  dismayed  for  fear,  fell  to 
the  ground;  her  heart  was  pierced  with  sorrow,  her  speech  was  in 
manner  passed;  all  her  spirits  were  tormented  with  melancholy." 

To  have  portrayed  Margaret  thus  before  Tewksbury  would  have 
been  dramatic  inasmuch  as  it  would  contrast  with  her  ordinary 
bold  and  unquenchable  spirit;  but  it  would  not  have  been  in 
harmony  with  the  larger  contrast  upon  which  the  Queen  Margaret 
Scenes  are  based — the  contrast  of  the  mannish  Queen  with  the 
womanish  King.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Henry  is  a  dramatic 
figure — a  fact  which  no  theory  of  the  drama  but  that  of  contrast 
can  suflSciently  explain.  The  formula  of  "passion  in  action'*  will 
not  serve,  for  in  Henry  there  is  neither  one  nor  the  other.  Mr. 
Archer's  suggestion  of  "crises"  is  as  little  to  the  purpose,  for  the 
King  is  least  dramatic  in  "culminating  moments"  and  most 
dramatic  when  the  action  of  the  play  is  temporarily  suspended — 
when,  for  example,  disguised  and  bearing  a  prayer-book  in  his 
weakling  hand,  he  strolls  soliloquizing  in  the  north  woods  (77/ 
Henry  VI,  IH.  1.).  Nor  does  the  explanation,  "conflict  of  wills," 
explain  King  Henry,  for  obviously  it  takes  two  to  make  a  fight. 
No;  King  Henry  is  dramatic  for  the  same  reason  that  Prince 
Hamlet  is  dramatic — because  he  is  in  contrast  with  every  one  about 
him  and  is  the  tragic  victim  of  contrasts  within  himself. 

In  the  royal  personage  after  whom  these  three  plays  are,  almost 
ironically,  named,  Shakespeare  presents  to  us  a  type  of  the  con- 
ventional "good,  pious  soul"  who  means  pathetically  well,  who  is 
irritatingly  addicted  to  devotional  ejaculations,  who  is  profoundly 
impressed  by  the  conviction  that  this  earth  is  a  vale  of  tears,  but 
who  is  utterly  incapable  of  judging  men,  prone  to  do  injury  frora 
pious  motives,  and  in  general  altogether  unsuited  for  the  work  in 
the  world  that  circumstances  call  upon  him  to  do.  It  is  char- 
acteristic that  on  an  occasion  necessitating  action.  King  Henry 
very  consistently  faints  away  (77  Henry  VI,  III.  ii.) ;  and  there  is 
a  certain  grim  humor  in  a  very  modern  interpretation  of  Somerset's 
remedial  suggestion: 

Rear  up  his  body;  wring  him  by  the  nose. 


56  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE'S 

Such  is  the  man  who  is  placed  in  contrast  with  Margaret  of 
Anjou;  and  just  as  Shakespeare  tampered  with  his  sources  in 
etching  the  Queen,  so  did  he  Hkewise  in  portraying  the  King. 
In  these  words  he  makes  Margaret  describe  her  lord  and  master: 

But  all  his  mind  is  bent  to  holiness, 

To  number  Ave-Maries  on  his  beads; 

His  champions  are  the  prophets  and  apostles, 

His  weapons  holy  saws  of  sacred  writ. 

His  study  is  his  tilt-yard,  and  his  loves 

Are  brazen  images  of  canonized  saints. 

I  would  the  college  of  the  cardinals 

Would  choose  him  pope  and  carry  him  to  Rome, 

And  set  the  triple  crown  upon  his  head : 

That  were  a  state  fit  for  his  holiness. 

{II  Henry  VI,  I.  iii.) 

Kindlier  far  is  Holinshed  (III.  691.):  "He  was  plain,  upright,  far 
from  fraud,  wholly  given  to  prayer,  reading  of  scriptures,  and 
alms-deeds."  And  Hall  (303)  suppHes  several  softening  details 
missing  from  Shakespeare's  lines  both  in  letter  and  in  spirit: 
"King  Henry  was  of  stature  goodly,  of  body  slender,  to  which 
proportion  all  other  members  were  correspondent;  his  face  beauti- 
tiful,  in  the  which  continually  was  resident  the  bounty  of  mind 
with  which  he  was  inwardly  endowed.  He  did  abhor  of  his  own 
nature  all  the  vices,  as  well  of  the  body  as  of  the  soul;  and,  from  his 
very  infancy,  he  was  of  honest  conversation  and  pure  integrity; 
no  knower  of  evil,  and  a  keeper  of  all  goodness;  a  despiser  of  all 
things  which  were  wont  to  cause  the  minds  of  mortal  men  to  slide 
or  appair.  Besides  this,  patience  was  so  radicate  in  his  heart 
that  of  all  the  injuries  to  him  committed  (which  were  no  small 
number)  he  never  asked  vengeance  nor  punishment,  but  for  that 
rendered  to  Almighty  God,  his  Creator,  hearty  thanks,  thinking 
that  by  this  trouble  and  adversity  his  sins  were  to  him  forgotten 
and  forgiven." 

This  is  not  the  Henry  of  Shakespeare,  but  the  Henry  of  whom 
Sharon  Turner  has  said:  "No  sovereign  seems  to  have  possessed 
purer  feehngs,  or  more  upright  intentions  than  the  meek  and 
gentle  Henry.""  But  it  is  a  Henry  who,  under  the  circumstances 
set  forth  in  the  plays  and  in  view  of  the  characters  swirling  about 
the  throne,  would  be  immeasurably  less  dramatic  than  the  feeble 


^'Quoted  in  French's  Shakeapearana  Genealogica,  p.  178. 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  57 

warrior  who  after  the  battle  of  St.  Alban's  "slily  stole  away  and 
left  his  men"  (///  Henry  VI,  I.  i.),  and  whose  watery  character 
gives  bitter  irony  to  the  words  of  the  leering  Gloucester  who  has 
just  driven  his  blade  into  Henry's  heart: 

What,  will  the  aspiring  blood  of  Lancaster 
Sink  in  the  ground?     I  thought  it  would  have  mounted. 

{Ill  Henry  VI,  V.  vi.) 

Before  leaving  the  three  plays  of  King  Henry  VI  we  must 
briefly  call  attention  to  a  few  of  the  numerous  minor  contrasts 
scattered  through  the  scenes,  most  of  them  with  no  historical 
warrant.  For  example,  there  is  the  Mayor  of  London's  whimsical 
comment  on  the  Winchester-Gloucester  Feud: 

Good  God,  these  nobles  should  such  stomachs  bear! 
I  myself  fight  not  once  in  forty  year. 

(Z  Henry  VI,  I.  iii.) 

Likewise  it  is  in  the  spirit  of  contrast  that  Hume's  soliloquy  is 
devised  (77  Henry  VI y  I.  ii.).  He  has  been  playing  a  part  with 
the  Duchess  of  Gloucester;  now  he  removes  the  mask  and  shows 
his  shrewd,  scornful  countenance.  Again,  in  the  "miracle"  scene 
(77  Henry  VI,  II.  i.)  Shakespeare  brings  out  the  absurd  contrast 
more  clearly  by  having  the  fakir  feign  not  only  blindness  but 
lameness.  Sir  Thomas  More  tells  the  story  in  a  Dialogue  that  was 
accessible  to  Shakespeare,  but  has  no  reference  to  the  assumed 
lameness  of  the  imposter.  So  too,  in  the  second  and  third  scenes 
in  the  fifth  act  of  77  Henry  VI,  there  is  no  historical  matter  except 
the  bare  fact  that  Somerset  and  the  elder  CHfford  are  killed. 
Shakespeare  has  Clifford  fall  by  the  hand  of  the  Duke  of  York, 
thus  preparing  for  the  retribution  to  be  wreaked  by  yoimg  Clifford 
on  York  and  the  young  Duke  of  Rutland. 

Contrast  was  likewise  the  principle  upon  which  the  dramatist 
shaped  his  material  in  constructing  the  Jack  scenes  (77  Henry  VI, 
IV.).  This  accounts  for  the  humorous  effect  of  the  episode 
(scene  ii.)  where  the  inflated  Cade  sings  his  glories  and  Dick 
Butcher  and  Smith  the  weaver  act  as  an  ironic  chorus: 

Cade.     My  father  was  a  Mortimer, — 

Dick,     (aside).     He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  good  bricklayer. 

Cade.     My  mother  a  Plantagenet, — 

Dick  (aside).     I  knew  her  well;  she  was  a  midwife. 

Cade.     My  wife  descended  of  the  Lacies, — 


58  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

Dick  (aside).  She  was,  indeed,  a  pedler*s  daughter,  and  sold 
many  laces. 

Smith  (aside).  But  now  of  late,  not  able  to  travel  with  her 
furred  pack,  she  washes  bucks  here  at  home. 

Cade.     Therefore  am  I  of  an  honourable  house. 

Dick  (aside).  Ay,  by  my  faith,  the  field  is  honourable;  and 
there  was  he  born,  under  a  hedge,  for  his  father  had  never  a  house 
but  the  cage. 

In  general,  the  Cade  band  in  Holinshed  is  not  composed  of  the 
"crazy  Cahbans"  depicted  by  Shakespeare. 


KING  RICHARD  II 

Time  and  again  it  has  been  asserted  that  King  Richard  II  is 
not  an  acting  play,  which  means  not  a  play  at  all.  Thus,  Dr. 
Johnson  complains  that  "it  is  not  finished  at  least  with  the  happy 
force  of  some  of  his  other  tragedies,  nor  can  be  said  much  to  affect 
the  passions  or  enlarge  the  understanding" — in  the  face  of  which 
dogmatic  condemnation  we  must  perforce  stand  silent  if  uncon- 
vinced. And  Coleridge,  sadly  wagging  his  head,  admits  that 
*'this  tragedy  is  ill  suited  to  our  present  large  theatres.  But,  "he 
hastens  to  add,  "in  itself,  and  for  the  closet,  I  feel  no  hesitation 
in  placing  it  as  the  first  and  most  admirable  of  all  Shakespeare';^ 
purely  historical  plays."  In  our  own  day  Professor  Matthews 
accepts  the  undramatic  quality  of  King  Richard  II  as  a  matter  of 
course.  It  "lacks  action,  it  is  barren  in  striking  situations; 
events  merely  happen  and  are  not  brought  about  by  deliberate 
intent.  The  movement  is  sluggish,  and  it  is  epic  or  eligiac  rather 
than  dramatic.  ...  In  other  words,  the  play  as  a  play  is 
weakened  by  a  dearth  of  dramatic  motive,  of  that  assertion  of  the 
human  will  which  is  ever  the  most  potent  force  in  the  theatre. 
.  .  .  The  central  figure  of  this  tragic  history  is  fundamentally 
undramatic."^* 

Are  not  these  and  similar  strictures  based  upon  too  narrow 
a  conception  of  what  constitutes  the  dramatic  ?  If  we  insist  upon 
action — action  with  a  beginning,  a  middle  and  an  end — as  essential 
to  the  drama,  then  certainly  the  play  of  King  Richard  II  is  not 
dramatic.  And  the  conviction  that  the  play  is  not  dramatic  and 
the  leading  character  is  not  dramatic  will  readily  lead  us  to  believe 
that  here  we  have  a  piece  of  artistic  work  not  suited  for  presenta- 
tion on  a  stage  before  an  audience.  In  proof  of  his  assertion  that 
the  play  is  unactable.  Professor  Matthews  quotes  the  actor, 
Macready.  But  is  an  actor,  even  a  Macready,  the  best  judge  of 
the  dramatic  character  of  a  play  ?  And  is  it  not  possible  that  with 
the  elimination  of  the  large  theatres  of  Coleridge's  time  and  the 
ranting  style  of  acting  of  Macready's  time,  the  play  of  King 
Richard  II,  competently  and  sympathetically  staged,  might  grip 


1*  Shakespeare  as  a  Playvyright,  pp.  92-94. 

5» 


60  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

an  audience  far  more  than  at  all  times  it  has  gripped  the  reader? 
Certainly  readers  who  visualize  as  they  read,  who  read  always 
with  an  eye  to  theatrical  effect  and  dramatic  force  and  stage 
conditions  and  the  existence  of  an  imaginary  audience,  sense  in 
this  play  strong  acting  possibilities.  Let  us  fling  aside,  for  the 
moment  at  least,  traditional  opinions  concerning  the  drama  in 
general  and  this  drama  in  particular  and  investigate  King  Richard 
II  from  the  point  of  view  of  dramatic  contrast. 

What  has  the  theory  of  contrast  to  tell  us  in  regard  to  the 
dramatic  or  undramatic  character  of  the  pensive  King  in  Shake- 
speare's play  ?  For  one  thing,  the  theory  of  contrast  will  prevent 
us  from  saying  that  any  character  is  in  himself  dramatic  or  un- 
dramatic. Hamlet  is  not  dramatic  in  himself;  lago  is  not  dramatic 
in  himself;  Lear  is  not  dramatic  in  himself.  All  three  are  dramatic, 
not  because  their  personalities  are  shown  to  be  such  and  so,  but 
because  they  are  contrasted  with  other  personalities.  Hence  we 
miss  the  point  when  we  take  it  for  granted  that  Richard  II, 
because  he  is  passive,  or  because  he  is  inconsistent,  or  because  he 
is  weak,  is  an  undramatic  figure.  Such  was  the  case  with  Henry 
VI,  and  such,  in  a  somewhat  different  way,  is  the  case  with 
Richard  II. 

In  painting  the  character  of  Richard,  both  in  the  self-revealing 
speeches  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  King  and  the  sayings  he 
attributes  to  the  other  characters,  Shakespeare  flew  quite  free  of 
his  sources — mainly  Hohnshed — and  conceived  a  Richard  II  far 
more  likable  and  far  more  sinned  against  than  the  Richard  of  the 
chronicler.  The  play  gives  us  no  hint  that  Richard  was  "prodigal, 
ambitious,  and  much  given  to  the  pleasure  of  the  body,"  that 
furthermore  "there  reigned  abundantly  the  filthy  sin  of  lechery 
and  fornication,  with  abominable  adultery,  especially  in  the 
King"  (Holinshed  III.  507-8).  There  is  no  doubt  that  Richard 
is  the  hero  of  the  drama  and  that  as  such  he  has  the  sympathy  of 
the  audience.  In  this  respect  Shakespeare  achieved  a  greater 
success  than  in  the  preceding  historical  plays,  in  none  of  which  is 
Henry  VI  the  hero.  And  the  sympathy  of  the  audience  is  a 
growing  sympathy;  there  is  little  of  it  in  the  first  act  where  the 
King  is  colorless,  and  little  of  it  in  the  interview  with  the  old 
Gaunt  (11.  i.);  but  here  the  young,  active  King,  thrown  into 
contrast  with  the  old,  dying  subject,  wins  our  understanding, 
though  not  our  approval,  and  we  fear  for  his  future.     This  scene. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  61 

SO  rich  in  contrasts,  is  another  of  Shakespeare's  invention.  It 
has  no  foundation  in  Holinshed  who  simply  records  the  fact  of 
Gaunt's  death  (III.  496.).  Following  Holinshed  but  in  the 
barest  outline,  Shakespeare  makes  of  the  third  scene  of  the  third 
act  a  brilliant  and  impressive  exposition  of  contrasts — ^not  merely 
between  Richard  and  his  external  foes  but  between  Richard  and 
his  internal  self.  He,  formerly  so  peremptory,  so  proud,  so 
despotic,  faces  the  prospect  of  his  deposition  with  almost  slavish 
submission,  and  the  dreamer  in  him  idly  paints  an  impossible 
future : 

I'll  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads. 
My  gorgeous  palace  for  a  hermitage, 
My  gay  apparel  for  an  almsman's  gown, 
My  figured  goblets  for  a  dish  of  wood. 
My  sceptre  for  a  palmer's  walking-staff, 
My  subjects  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints. 
And  my  large  kingdom  for  a  little  grave. 

All  this  and  much  more  of  the  same  tenor  while  his  active  enemies 
have  driven  him  to  the  wall  and  are  waiting  impatiently  to  despoil 
him  of  his  regal  estate. 

In  order  to  sustain  Richard  as  a  dramatic  figure,  the  dramatist/ 
places  him  in  contrast  with  two  characters  widely  different  in 
themselves  and  in  the  reactions  they  produce  in  the  King — the 
Queen  and  Bolingbroke.  In  the  case  of  the  Queen  we  have  on 
the  part  of  Shakespeare  a  deliberate  deviation  from  his  sources,  a 
deviation  that  only  the  theory  of  contrast  can  render  significant. 
The  historical  facts  concerning  Richard's  wife  are  briefly  as 
follows : 

Anne  of  Bohemia,  Richard's  first  wife,  died  in  1394,  after  twelve 
years  of  married  life.  Two  years  later  Richard  married  the  Lady 
Isabel  of  France — the  Queen  of  the  drama — ^who  was  of  very 
tender  years.  Most  authorities  maintain  that  she  was  only 
twelve  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  her  husband's  deposition  in 
1399 ;  at  any  rate,  she  could  not  have  been  much  beyond  that  age 
when  she  became  the  child-wife  of  the  English  monarch. 
Naturally,  the  scenes  in  which  she  figures  in  King  Richard  II 
have  no  historical  warrant,  especially  the  first  scene  of  Act  V 
wherein  Richard  bids  her  adieu.  He  never  saw  her  again  after 
leaving  on  his  Irish  expedition  which  is  over  and  done  with  earlier 
in  the  play. 


€2  CONTRAST  IN   SHAKESPEARE  S 

No  child-wife  is  the  gentle,  loving,  and  sweetly  sagacious  Queen 
of  the  drama.  Whether  she  laments  the  absence  of  her  royal 
husband  and  senses  impending  disasters  (II.  ii),  or  whether  she 
listens  to  the  conversation  of  the  gardeners  and  finally  breaks  upon 
them  in  the  throes  of  that  noble  indignation  that  makes  the  woman 
forget  she  is  a  queen,  she  is  ever  in  striking  contrast  with  Richard. 
The  garden  scene  (III.  iv.)  is  conceived  in  a  fine  spirit  of  contrast 
with  the  scenes  of  war  and  intrigue  which  precede  and  follow  it. 
And  a  genuine  dramatic  charm  inheres  in  the  dialogue  between  the 
sorrowing  Queen  and  her  attendant  (lines  1-23). 

Contrasting  in  another  way  with  the  King  is  his  rival  and 
supplanter,  Bolingbroke.  And  it  is  in  his  exposition  of  this 
contrast  that  Shakespeare  has  done  his  least  effective  work  in  the 
play.  He  adhered  more  closely  than  was  his  wont  to  the  concep- 
tion of  Bolingbroke  given  by  the  chroniclers,  with  the  result 
that  Bolingbroke  secures  the  crown  not  so  much  because  he  is 
strong  as  because  Richard  is  weak.  The  King  and  his  successor 
are  like  blades  that  clash  but  strike  out  no  sparks.  Bolingbroke 
does  not  stand  out  in  bold  relief  as  a  champion,  even  of  an  unjust 
cause;  he  has  rather  the  appearance  of  an  individual  in  a  crowd 
who  is  thrust  forward  and  by  force  of  circumstances  assumes  a 
role  of  prominence.  In  short,  the  relations  of  Richard  and 
Bolingbroke  are  less  dramatic  than  they  might  have  been  had  the 
dramatist  made  of  the  future  Henry  IV  a  more  commanding, 
decisive,  aggressive  figure,  thereby  putting  him  in  gripping  contrast 
with  the  pliant,  inconsistent,  and  passive  Richard. 

An  inkling  of  what  Shakespeare  might  have  done  with  BoHng- 
broke  were  he  so  disposed  is  given  us  in  the  fourth  scene  of  Act 
I  where  mention  is  made  of  Bolingbroke's  "courtship  of  the  common 
people."  Here  is  a  suggestion  of  the  wily  politician  and  diplomat 
who  makes  to  him  friends  on  all  sides  by  his  kindness,  his  affability, 
his  paternal  solicitude,  and  who  fights  against  the  man  he  aims  to 
overthrow  with  the  powerful  weapon  of  slantwise  suggestion.  Had 
this  trait  been  developed,  it  would  have  been  in  impressive  contrast 
with  the  inconsiderateness  and  lack  of  tact  displayed  by  Richard 
prior  to  his  reverses  of  fortune. 

Bolingbroke's  "courtship  of  the  common  people"  is  not  men- 
tioned in  Holinshed,  but  note  is  made  of  the  interest  the  common 
people  took  in  the  Duke's  personality  and  how  they  testified  their 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  63 

devotion  to  him  on  the  occasion  of  his  departure  from  England  as 
a  result  of  his  dispute  with  Mowbray: 

"A  wonder  it  was  to  see  what  number  of  people  ran  after  him 
in  every  town  and  street  where  he  came,  before  he  took  the  sea; 
lamenting  and  bewailing  his  departure,  as  who  would  say  that 
when  he  departed  the  only  shield,  defense,  and  comfort  of  the 
commonwealth  was  faded  and  gone.'*     (III.  494.) 

The  most  successful  presentation  of  the  contrast  between  Richard 
and  Bolingbroke  we  find  in  the  deservedly  famous  passage  wherein 
the  Duke  of  York  describes  to  his  wife  the  entrance  of  the  rivals 
into  London, 

Where  rude  misgoverned  hands  from  windows'  tops 
Throw  dust  and  rubbish  on  King  Richard's  head. 

Thus  the  Duke  proceeds : 

Then,  as  I  said,  the  duke,  great  Bolingbroke, 
Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed. 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know. 
With  slow  but  stately  pace  kept  on  his  course. 
Whilst  all  tongues  cried  "God  save  thee,  Bolingbroke!" 
You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spake, 
So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casementt  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage,  and  that  all  the  walls 
With  painted  imagery  had  said  at  once 
"Jesu  preserve  thee!  welcome,  Bolingbroke!" 
Whilst  he,  from  the  one  side  to  the  other  turning. 
Bareheaded,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck, 
Bespake  them  thus:  *T  thank  you,  countrymen": 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  passed  along. 

As  in  a  theatre  the  eyes  of  men, 

After  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the  stage, 

Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 

Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious; 

Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 

Did  scowl  on  gentle  Richard;  no  man  cried  "God  save  him!" 

No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home : 

But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head; 

Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off, 

His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles. 

The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience. 

That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steel'd 

The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted, 

And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him. 

(V.  ii.) 


64  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE  S 

Let  US  now  turn  to  a  consideration  of  a  scene  which  is  not 
only  the  most  dramatic  in  this  play  but  which  ranks  very  high 
indeed  among  the  dramatic  scenes  in  the  whole  of  Shakespeare — 
the  abdication  scene.  Its  theatrical  possibilities  are  so  vast  and 
its  appeal  to  the  audience  so  tense  and  searching  that  we  have 
diflficulty  in  understanding  how,  in  view  of  the  existence  of  that 
one  scene,  the  myth  that  King  Richard  II  is  not  an  acting  play 
still  finds  credence. 

In  this  truly  remarkable  fourth  act  we  are  introduced  to  the 
somber  and  lofty  hall  of  Westminster,  where  are  gathered  the 
princes  and  prelates  of  the  realm,  their  many-hued  fourteenth 
century  costumes  in  contrast  with  the  place  and  with  the  occasion, 
for  they  have  come  to  witness  the  abdication — or  deposition — of 
a  king.  Not  only  the  hush  of  expectancy  but  likewise  the  stir  of 
conflict  is  in  the  air.  Hardly  have  the  proceedings  begun  when 
eyes  flash  fire  and  gages  are  exchanged.  Then,  like  the  beating 
of  unseen  wings,  comes  mention  of  the  dead;  and  all  heads  are 
bowed  as  a  churchman  tells  of  how  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  having 
fought 

For  Jesu  Christ  in  glorious  Christian  field, 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross 
Against  black  pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens 

at  Venice  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth. 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long. 

Comes  mention  next  of  "plume-pluck'd  Richard;"  and  BoHng- 
broke  stands  forth  and  cries : 

In  God's  name  I'll  ascend  the  regal  throne. 

But  in  God's  name  he  is  forbidden.  The  Bishop  of  Carlyle 
boldly  flings  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  the  usurper  and  his  supporters, 
and  threatens  the  vengeance  of  heaven  upon  those  who  raise 
their  hands  against  the  anointed  king. 

Then  King  Richard  enters,  and  throughout  the  scene  his  pensive 
thoughts  uttered  aloud  prick  sharply  into  the  consciences  of  his 
persecutors.  He  is  a  marvelously  dramatic  figure  to  the  end. 
"God  save  the  king!"  he  prays;  then  adds,  "Will  no  man  say 
Amen?"  He  takes  the  golden  band  of  royalty  and  extends  it  to 
the  aspiring  Bolingbroke. 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  65 

Here  cousin; 

On  this  side  my  hand,  and  on  that  side  yours. 

Now  is  this  golden  crown  Hke  a  deep  well 

That  owes  two  buckets,  filling  one  another. 

The  emptier  ever  dancing  in  the  air, 

The  other  down,  unseen  and  full  of  water: 

That  bucket  down  and  full  of  tears  am  I, 

Drinking  my  griefs,  whilst  you  mount  up  on  high. 

I  give  this  heavy  weight  from  off  my  head 
And  this  unwieldy  sceptre  from  my  hand. 
The  pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  my  heart; 
With  mine  own  tears  I  wash  away  my  balm, 
With  mine  own  hands  I  give  away  my  crown. 
With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state. 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duty's  rites. 

But  the  contrasts  of  character  in  the  unhappy  King  come  once 
more  to  the  surface;  all  is  not  sad-eyed  submission.  He  calls  his 
enemies  traitors;  and  when  Northumberland  seeks  to  interrupt 
him  with,  **My  Lord,"  the  King  answers  in  anger: 

No  lord  of  thine,  thou  haught,  insulting  man. 
Nor  no  man's  lord; 

And  straightway  he  is  once  more  the  melancholy  dreamer  of 
dreams  of  fallen  greatness.  He  calls  for  a  mirror  wherein  to  look 
upon  the  Richard  that  is,  to  contrast  him  with  the  Richard  that 
was;  then  he  dashes  the  glass  to  the  ground  where  it  lies, 

crack'd  in  a  hundred  shivers. 
Mark,  silent  king,  the  moral  of  this  sport. 
How  soon  my  sorrow  hath  destroyed  my  face. 

At  the  end  Richard  begs  a  boon  of  his  successor. 

Bolinghroke.     Yet  ask. 

Ki7ig  Richard.     And  I  shall  have? 
Boling.     You  shall. 

K.  Rich.     Then  give  me  leave  to  go. 
Boling.     Whither.^ 

K.  Rich.     Whither  you  will,  so  I  were  from  your  sights. 
Boling.     Go,  some  of  you  convey  him  to  the  Tower. 

K.Rich.     O,  good!     Convey.?     Conveyers  are  you  all. 
That  rise  thus  nimbly  by  a  true  king's  fall. 

Truly,  as  an  exit  speech  and  as  a  "curtain"  episode,  this  is  not 
badly  conceived!     And,  truly,  he  who  reads  that  abdication  scene 


66  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE 's 

with  mind  active  and  imagination  alert  must  perforce  concede 
that  he  has  reached  an  appreciation  of  one  of  the  supreme  scenes 
in  the  EngKsh  drama.  And  if  he  is  curious  enough  to  go  over  the 
scene  in  an  analytic  mood  and  probe  for  the  causes  of  its  dramatic 
effectiveness,  he  will  find  that  it  is  wrought  of  contrast  upon 
contrast. 

In  the  composition  of  the  abdication  scene,  to  what  extent  has 
Shakespeare  departed  from  his  sources?  In  the  first  place,  the 
abdication  of  Richard  took  place  privately  in  the  Tower,  not 
publicly  in  the  hall  at  Westminster.  Then,  too,  the  hteral 
surrender  of  the  crown  by  Richard  into  the  hands  of  Bolingbroke 
has  no  mention  in  Holinshed.  The  merest  outhne  of  the  event  is 
given  in  Froissart  which,  if  Shakespeare  used  it,  he  amplified 
wondrously  and  made  of  it  the  most  impressive  and  typical  episode 
in  the  entire  scene.  In  both  these  instances  it  is  evident  that  the 
deviation  from  historic  fact  was  made  in  the  interests  of  dramatic 
contrast. 

And  so,  too,  with  certain  minor  episodes.  The  dispute  of 
Aumerle  with  the  lords  is  sharpened  and  vivified  from  Holinshed's 
prosaic  recital.  In  Holinshed  the  account  (III.  505)  of  Boling- 
broke's  assuming  the  kingship  is  detailed  and  reflects  creditably 
on  him.  We  are  told  that  Bolingbroke,  "rising  from  the  place 
where  before  he  sat,  and  standing  where  all  those  in  the  house 
might  behold  him,  in  reverent  manner  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
on  his  forehead  and  likewise  on  his  breast,"  modestly  made  open 
his  claims  to  the  crown;  after  which  "he  returned  and  sat  him 
down  in  the  place  where  before  he  had  sitten."  In  stronger 
contrast  with  Richard  is  Shakespeare's  BoHngbroke  who  briefly 
says: 

In  God's  name  111  ascend  the  regal  throne. 

In  Holinshed  he  does  not  ascend  the  regal  throne  unaided.  The 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  "going  to  the  duke,  and  kneehng  down 
before  him  on  his  knee  addressed  to  him  aU  his  purpose  in  few 
words.  The  which  when  he  had  ended,  he  rose,  and,  taking  the 
duke  by  the  right  hand,  led  him  into  the  king's  seat  (the  Arch- 
bishop of  York  assisting  him),  and  with  great  reverence  set  him 
therein,  after  that  the  duke  had  first  upon  his  knees  made  his 
prayer  in  devout  manner  unto  Almighty  God." 

Before  leaving  the  play  of  King  Richard  II,  it  will  not  be  amiss 
to  call  attention  to  the  Aumerle  conspiracy  as  therein  set  forth. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  67 

an  episode  undeniably  dramatic  and  eminently  susceptible  of 
interpretation  from  the  point  of  view  of  dramatic  contrast.  The 
facts  themselves  were  dramatic  facts,  and  Holinshed  in  his  account 
caught  something  of  the  spirit  of  them,  and  gave  Shakespeare 
material  already  worthy  of  dramatic  presentation.  And  Shake- 
speare followed  Holinshed  closely,  visualizing  and  detailing  when- 
ever necessary  and  making  only  one  addition  to  the  characters, 
that  of  the  Duchess  of  York.  That  that  is  a  notable  addition 
can  be  perceived  by  fancying  what  the  conspiracy  scenes  (V.  ii., 
iii.)  would  be  without  the  contrasts  afforded  by  the  mother  who 
pleads  for  her  guilty  son  to  her  husband  and  to  her  king.  It  is  an 
addition  that  supplements  the  contrast  of  Prince  Hal  and  Aumerle 
with  the  contrast  of  the  Duke  pleading  for  justice  and  the  Duchess 
pleading  for  mercy.  In  inventing  the  Duchess  of  York,  Shake- 
speare had  to  do  violence  to  the  facts  of  history.  Aumerle*s 
mother  was  dead  years  before  the  events  commemorated  in  the 
play,  the  Duchess  of  Shakespeare  being  only  his  step-mother. 
The  Duke  of  Aumerle  was  in  reality  a  despicable  character,  who 
was  implicated  in  the  murder  of  his  uncle,  Gloucester,  who  shifted 
repeatedly  in  his  allegiance  to  Richard,  and  who  was  informed  by 
the  latter  that  he  was  unworthy  of  nobility." 

"  French,  Shaks,  Gen.,  p.  28. 


VI. 
KING  RICHARD  III 

A  distinction  is  advisedly  drawn  between  the  theatrical  and 
the  dramatic.  Both  are  based  on  the  fundamental  principle  of 
contrast  manifesting  itself  in  volitional  conflict  or  incongruity  or 
emotional  stress  or  variety  of  viewpoint  or  some  other  form  of 
presentation  in  which  the  underlying  antithesis  in  character  or 
plot  is  developed  and  explained;  and  both  carry  conviction  to  the 
audience.  But  after  that  they  break  away  from  each  other;  for 
while  the  dramatic  continues  to  impress  a  member  of  the  audience 
as  true  and  natural  and  inevitable  when,  to  recall  Wordsworth's 
fine  phrase,  it  is  recollected  in  tranquility,  the  theatrical  on  sub- 
sequent analysis  proves  to  be  unreal  and  strained  and  forced — 
thrilling  rather  than  emotional,  laugh-provoking  rather  than 
humorous,  clever  rather  than  great.  The  scene  in  King  Lear 
in  which  Lear  curses  his  daughter,  Goneril,  is  dramatic;  the  scene 
in  Richelieu  in  which  the  Cardinal  invokes  the  curse  of  Rome  is 
theatrical.  The  scene  in  Twelfth  Night  in  which  Malvolio  appears 
before  Olivia  wearing  cross-garters  and  yellow  stockings  is  dram- 
atic; the  scene  in  Are  You  a  Mason?  in  which  the  supposed  grand 
master  reluctantly  discovers  his  long  lost  daughter  is  theatrical. 
Similarly,  Hamlet  and  Falstaff,  as  presented  in  the  setting  and 
with  the  characters  selected  for  them  by  Shakespeare,  are  dramatic 
characters,  while  Claude  Melnotte  in  The  Lady  of  Lyons  and  the 
chocolate  soldier  in  Arms  and  the  Man  are  theatrical  characters. 
What  is  dramatic  is  coin  that  rings  true;  what  is  theatrical  is 
stage  money. 

It  can  be  readily  seen  from  this  brief  exposition  that  a  scene  or  a 
character  conceived  in  the  true  dramatic  spirit  may  promptly 
degenerate  into  theatricalism;  in  other  words,  the  dramatic  often 
tends  to  fall  into  the  melodramatic.  Should  the  dramatist,  in 
his  endeavor  to  illustrate  and  set  forth  the  underlying  contrast, 
give  it  undue  accentuation  or  carry  it  beyond  the  bounds  of 
probability  as  those  bounds  are  determined  in  actual  life,  he 
constructs  a  scene  or  portrays  a  character  that  will  possibly  be 
impressive  and  successful  on  the  stage  and  for  the  moment  but 
which  will  be  recognized  ultimately  as  untrue  to  life.  Thus  the 
adapters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  story,  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 

68 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  09 

Hyde,  took  an  eminently  artistic  novel  and  made  of  it  a  notoriously 
inartistic  play;  they  were  wise  in  recognizing  in  the  obvious  contrast 
of  the  two  personalities  suitable  material  for  stage  presentation, 
but  they  were  unwise  in  manipulating  that  material  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  of  it,  not  an  impressive  dramatic  work,  but  a  piece  of 
cheap  and  tawdry  theatrical  claptrap. 

Unquestionably  the  most  melodramatic  play  that  Shakespeare 
wrote  and  the  most  theatrical  character  that  Shakespeare  created 
are  King  Richard  III  and  its  ranting  protagonist.  Having  limned 
a  theatrically  ideal  villainess  in  La  Pucelle,  he  now  seeks  to  present 
a  theatrically  ideal  villain;  and  he  succeeds.  He  gives  his  Richard 
the  center  of  the  stage;  he  makes  him  tell  the  audience,  repeatedly 
and  unequivocally,  that  he  is  a  bold,  bad  man;  he  gives  him  a  most 
uncanny  and  inexplicable  power  over  women;  he  makes  him  phys- 
ically hideous;  he  robs  him  of  every  tender  human  feeling;  he 
sends  him  horrible  dreams.  We  need  no  knowledge  of  history  to 
assure  ourselves  that  the  Richard  of  Shakespeare  is  the  caricature  of 
an  English  king,  for  we  clearly  discern  that  he  is  the  caricature  of 
a  human  being. 

When  Shakespeare  set  himself  the  task  of  creating  the  Duke 
of  Gloucester  and  building  around  him  the  play  of  King  Richard 
III,  Horace  Walpole  had  not  written  his  Historic  Doubts  and  more 
recent  writers  like  Sir  Clements  Markham  had  not  continued  the 
difficult  task  of  whitewashing  the  man  whom  Sir  Thomas  More  had 
blackened,  rightly  or  wrongly,  for  all  time;  but  he  found  in  Holin- 
shed  a  curtailed  version  of  More  ready  to  hand,  and  doubtless  in 
legends  and  traditions  coming  to  him  by  word  of  mouth  he  dis- 
covered a  singular  unanimity  of  opinion  as  regards  Richard's 
moral  obliquity.  He  had  but  to  select  his  material  and  shape  it 
according  to  desire. 

It  is  interesting  to  conjecture  what  manner  of  play  he  would 
have  made  out  of  the  material  had  he  approached  the  task  some 
ten  years  later — let  us  say  about  the  time  that  he  was  writing 
Othello.  Richard  would  still  be  a  villain,  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
he  would  not  be  ideal  in  his  villainy.  The  influence  of  Marlowe 
and  Tamhurlaine  would  have  had  waned,  the  hand  of  the  dramatic 
craftsman  would  be  surer  in  its  touch,  into  Shakespeare's  unform- 
ulated principles  of  composition  would  have  come  the  saving  grace 
and  suggestive  potency  of  artistic  reserve.  His  perception  of 
underlying  contrasts  would  be  as  keen,  but  his  presentation  of  them 


70  CONTRAST  IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

would  be  more  finely  shaded,  his  coordination  of  them  more 
skilled.     The  result  would  be  less  theatrical  and  more  dramatic. 

But  Shakespeare,  fresh  from  his  apprentice  work  with  the 
tragedy  of  blood  and  still  under  the  spell  of  the  titanic  genius  of 
Marlowe,  wrought  his  material  into  a  fabric  which,  slight  in  its 
artistic  value  and  shallow  and  distorted  in  its  truth  to  life,  lives 
even  today  because  of  its  compelling  theatricalism.  The  play  is 
especially  worth  while  as  a  contribution  to  the  theory  of  dramatic 
contrast;  in  it  we  have  not  contrast  merely,  but  contrast  in  the 
raw. 

One  reason  why  this  play,  despite  its  inherent  weaknesses — to 
say  nothing  of  the  added  ills  foisted  upon  it  in  the  stage  version 
perpetrated  by  CoUey  Gibber — still  holds  the  stage,  is  because 
prominent  actors  favor  it;  and  prominent  actors  favor  it  because 
it  is  a  one-man  play.  The  author  may  have  erred  when  he  named 
Julius  Caesar;  he  sinned  not  against  the  fitness  of  things  when  he 
named  Richard  III.  Gloucester  is  the  dominant,  the  eye-arrest- 
ing, the  ear-compelling,  the  all-absorbing  figure.  The  other 
characters  are  but  so  many  foils  who  set  him  off  by  contrast. 
The  plot — would  Brunetiere  call  it  a  conflict  of  wills? — is  the 
projection  of  Richard's  personality.  The  play  is,  indeed,  the 
thing;  but  Richard  is  the  play. 

To  make  and  to  keep  Gloucester  blackly,  unrelievedly,  and 
consistently  wicked,  to  hold  him  unintermittently  before  the 
attention  of  the  audience,  to  intensify  his  wickedness  by  making 
him  so  deep  a  villain  that  the  other  characters,  if  they  are  good, 
shine  by  contrast,  and,  if  they  are  evil,  must  in  his  presence  pale 
their  ineffectual  fires — such  was  the  direct  dramatic  purpose  of 
Shakespeare  in  King  Richard  III,  and  such  was  the  view  toward 
which  he  manipulated  his  material.  There  was  no  finesse,  no 
complexity,  no  tangled  skein  of  motives  in  his  deviation  from 
HoHnshed;  he  was  intent  simply  on  contrast — any  contrast  and 
all  contrasts  that  would  at  all  serve  to  make  and  keep  the  protagon- 
ist an  ideal  villain. 

And  so  we  have,  quite  early  in  the  play,  a  characteristic  instance 
of  Shakespeare's  compression  of  time.  In  point  of  fact  the  funeral 
of  King  Henry  VI  was  held  in  1471;  the  arrest  of  Clarence  took 
place  six  years  later.  It  is  to  the  interest  of  Shakespeare  to  syn- 
chronize the  events,  and  he  does  so.  The  dramatic  effect  of  his 
procedm-e  is  the  impression  that  flows  out  to  the  audience  of 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  71 

Gloucester's  double-dyed  duplicity  and  callousness  in  crime. 
After  witnessing  those  two  scenes,  we  are  already  convinced  that 
Gloucester  is  a  very  villain  and  also  a  resourceful  and  dangerous 
villain.  His  brother  Clarence,  by  Gloucester's  contrivance,  is 
being  conducted  to  the  Tower;  here  is  one  of  Gloucester's  pros- 
pective victims.  The  remains  of  Henry  VI,  slain  by  Gloucester's 
hand,  are  being  borne  to  the  tomb;  here  is  one  of  Gloucester's 
actual  victims.  Thus  far  the  scene  is  dramatic  as  distinguished 
from  theatrical;  but  straightway  Gloucester  stops  the  funeral 
procession,  crosses  wits  with  the  mourning  Lady  Anne,  woos  and 
wins  the  daughter-in-law  of  the  king  he  had  murdered,  and 
concludes  by  soliloquizing  for  the  express  benefit  of  the  audience: 

Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  woo'd? 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  won  ? 
I'll  have  her;  but  I  will  not  keep  her  long. 
What!     I,  that  killed  her  husband  and  his  father. 
To  take  her  in  her  heart's  extremest  hate. 
With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes. 
The  bleeding  witness  of  her  hatred  by. 

This  is  not  human  passion;  it  is  rather  akin  to  the  amours  and 
assassinations  of  the  late  Mr.  Punch.  The  contrasts  are  obvious 
and  gripping;  and  to  make  then  doubly  so  Shakespeare  has  his 
protagonist  explicitly  call  attention  to  them  in  a  lengthy  soliloquy. 
That  soliloquy,  of  course,  Shakespeare  did  not  find  in  Holinshed; 
and  neither  did  he  find  there  or  elsewhere  the  contrast-teeming 
dialogue  in  which  Richard  proposes  marriage  and  is  tacitly  ac- 
cepted. Seemingly,  indeed,  Shakespeare  cannot  give  us  too  much 
of  this  sort  of  thing.  Later  on  (IV.  iv.)  he  must  needs  halt  Richard 
on  the  way  to  the  war  and  have  him  conduct  a  proxy  wooing, 
and  successfully.  The  fact  he  found  in  Holinshed;  the  details — 
more  contrasts  similar  to  those  found  in  the  courtship  of  the  Lady 
Anne — are  Shakespeare's  own,  as  is  Richard's  brief  but  pointed 
soliloquy : 

Relenting  fool,  and  shallow,  changing  woman! 

On  the  other  hand,  Shakespeare  was  prompt  to  utilize  every 
hint  afforded  by  Holinshed  regarding  Gloucester's  assumed  devo- 
tional spirit  and  his  palpably  artificial  reluctance  to  accept  the 
crown.  HoHnshed  (III.  727-731)  follows  More,  and  Shakespeare 
(III.  vii.)  follows  Holinshed,  omitting  numerous  trivial  incidents 
connected  with  Buckingham's  speech  but  focusing  attention  on 


72  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

the  dissembling  scoundrel  who,  having  waded  riotously  in  the 
blood  of  his  kindred,  now  smirks  hypocritically  as  he  finds  footing 
on  the  steps  of  the  throne.  The  prayer  book  and  the  bishops  are 
eflPective  stage  properties  and  Shakespeare  would  by  no  means 
leave  them  out. 

More  and  Holinshed  made  Richard  an  unmistakably  evil 
character.  Shakespeare  took  their  portrait,  intensified  the  blacks 
and  blackened  the  neutrals,  and  wrote  in  large  characters  beneath 
the  effigy,  "This  is  a  villain!'*  His  sources  expressed  at  least  some 
doubt  regarding  Richard's  responsibility  for  the  murders  of  Clar- 
ence, the  Lady  Anne,  and  the  two  princes;  Shakespeare  paints 
out  the  doubts  with  a  few  vigorous  strokes  of  his  brush.  His 
sources  indulged  in  occasional  conjectures  concerning  the  details 
of  Richard's  villainy;  Shakespeare  renders  that  villainy  unmistak- 
able and  self-confessed.  Holinshed  has  Richard  say;  *T  have  with 
strict  penance  and  salt  tears  expiated  and  clearly  purged  my 
offenses;"  but  Shakespeare  has  Richard  say:  "Conscience  is  but  a 
word  that  cowards  use."  And,  on  the  eve  of  Richard's  day  of 
retribution,  that  the  audience  might  be  once  again  reminded  of 
the  King's  murderous  career,  Shakespeare  contrives  a  procession 
of  ghostly  victims  who  ban  Richard  and  bless  his  rival,  Richmond. 

A  hint,  and  a  hint  only,  of  the  visit  of  the  victims,  Shakespeare 
got  from  Holinshed.  We  read  in  the  chronicle  (III.  755.) :  "The 
fame  went,  that  he  had  the  same  night  a  dreadful  and  terrible 
dream;  for  it  seemed  to  him,  being  asleep,  that  he  did  see  divers 
images  like  terrible  devils,  which  pulled  and  haled  him,  not 
suffering  him  to  take  any  quiet  or  rest.  The  which  strange  vision 
not  so  suddenly  struck  his  heart  with  a  sudden  fear,  but  it  stuffed 
his  head  and  troubled  his  mind  with  many  busy  and  dreadful 
imaginations." 

Note  how  Shakespeare,  accepting  the  hint,  makes  of  it  one  of 
the  most  effective  contrasts  in  the  play.  Instead  of  the  "divers 
images  like  terrible  devils,"  he  introduces  the  ghosts  of  Prince 
Edward,  King  Henry  VI,  Clarence,  Rivers,  Grey,  Vaughan, 
Hasting,  the  two  princes.  Lady  Anne,  and  Buckingham.  The 
contrast  is  furthered  by  the  simple  device — of  which  no  hint  is 
given  in  Holinshed — of  having  each  of  the  ghosts,  after  cursing 
Richard,  turn  toward  the  tent  of  Richmond  and  bless  his  emprise. 

The  portrait  of  Richard  is  so  malignly  black  that  it  might  be 
supposed  to  defeat  its  own  purpose;  a  massing  of  shadows  unrelieved 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  73 

by  lights  hardly  conveys  the  desired  impression  of  blackness, 
unless  it  be  hung  in  the  midst  of  pictures  less  sombre.  And 
therefore — ^though  Richard  is  never  out  of  our  minds  and  rarely 
out  of  the  minds  of  the  persons  in  the  play — ^we  find  scenes  of 
considerable  length  in  which  he  is  not  physically  present  but  in 
which  his  blackness  is  set  off  by  comparison  with  other  characters 
in  varying  degrees  less  black  than  he.  Thus,  the  scene  in  the  Tower 
(I.  iv.)  which  describes  the  dream  of  Clarence,  the  conversation 
of  the  murderers,  and  the  killing  of  the  Duke,  finds  its  explanation 
in  the  theory  of  contrast.  The  murderers  are  the  conventional 
stage  murderers,  so  indispensable  in  the  tragedy  of  blood,  and  util- 
ized so  effectively  by  Shakespeare  in  Macbeth — supposedly  hard- 
ened criminals,  professional  burkers  who  nonchalantly  kill  people 
for  a  consideration;  yet,  in  a  few  revealing  strokes,  Shakespeare 
here  institutes  a  contrast  between  the  two  assassins  themselves 
and  another  between  them  and  Gloucester  who  has  hired  them. 
The  audience  witnessing  this  scene  gets  the  specific  impression 
that  Clarence  is  bad,  the  second  murderer  worse,  the  first  murderer 
worse  yet;  but  that  Gloucester  is  bad  in  the  superlative.  The  very 
slender  foundation  for  this  scene  of  contrast  within  contrast  is 
found  in  HoHnshed's  statement  (III.  703.)  that  Clarence  "was 
cast  into  the  Tower,  and  therewith  adjudged  for  a  traitor,  and 
privily  drowned  in  a  butt  of  malmesie,  the  eleventh  of  March, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  year  of  the  king's  reign." 

From  other  scenes  in  which  Richard  does  not  appear  in  person 
we  derive  a  similar  impression  of  his  sinister  character  and  motives; 
we  do  not  see  the  spider,  but  we  do  see  the  tightening  of  his  web 
and  the  fruitless  squirmings  of  the  snared  flies.  Thus  Stanley, 
dreaming  that  "the  boar  had  razed  his  helm,"  is  by  Hastings 
ridiculed  for  his  fears  (III.  ii.);  and  presently  the  tusks  of  the 
boar  have  searched  the  scoffer's  vitals.  And  then,  in  contrast 
with  the  male  victims  of  the  King,  we  have  the  futile  curses  and 
reproaches  and  lamentations  of  his  women  victims — Queen 
Margaret  and  Queen  Elizabeth;  the  Lady  Anne,  his  doomed  wife; 
the  Duchess  of  York,  the  sad-eyed  mother  who  bore  him.  The 
contrast  (IV.  iv.)  between  the  mother  of  the  murderer  and  the 
mother  of  two  of  his  victims,  and  the  further  contrast  occasioned 
by  the  increasing  bruit  of  Richard's  warlike  approach  are  entirely 
of  Shakespeare's  invention. 


74  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

A  refreshing  relief  from  the  prevaiUng  theatricahty  of  the  play 
is  Shakespeare's  presentation  of  the  httle  princes — ^the  youth  who 
for  so  brief  a  time  bore  the  title  of  King  Edward  V  and  his  brother, 
the  Duke  of  York.  The  latter  Shakespeare  conceives  as  a  pre- 
cocious youngster,  perhaps  rather  too  pert  to  suit  every  taste,  but 
withal  an  amiable  boy  (II.  ii.).  And  the  young  King,  more 
winsome  even  than  his  brother,  enlists  the  deepest  sympathy  of 
the  audience  as  he  rides  so  unsuspectingly  to  the  Tower  and  his 
doom  (III.  i.).  Some  of  Shakespeare's  happiest  touches  bring 
out  with  dramatic,  as  distinguished  from  theatrical,  clarity  the 
contrast  between  the  guileless  princes  and  their  guilty  uncle. 
The  sallies  of  wit  engaged  in  by  the  Duke  of  York  at  Gloucester's 
expense  evoke  tears  rather  than  smiles,  for  we  anticipate  the 
thoroughness  of  Richard's  pending  retaliation;  and  a  deeply 
dramatic  significance  attaches  to  Richard's  comment  on  the 
young  King's  juvenile  philosophy : 

So  wise,  so  young,  they  say,  do  never  live  long. 


VII. 
KING  JOHN 

For  once,  at  least,  in  the  course  of  this  investigation,  we  may 
dispense  with  Hohnshed.  In  his  Life  and  Death  of  King  John 
Shakespeare  gives  no  evidence — save  in  one  or  two  immaterial 
instances — of  his  having  made  direct  use  of  the  chronicle.  His 
materials  were  supplied  by  a  play,  the  identity  of  whose  author 
remains  conjectural,  entitled  The  Troublesome  Raigne  of  John, 
King  of  England,  which  was  first  printed  in  1591.  This  older 
drama  is — not  two  plays,  as  has  been  sometimes  stated — ^but  a 
double-length  play;  and  the  most  obvious  task  that  Shakespeare 
faced  when  he  set  about  fashioning  a  new  version  of  The  Trouble- 
some Raigne,  was  to  condense  the  play  by  half.  He  had,  neces- 
sarily, to  make  a  flection  of  material;  and  he  did,  in  fact,  modify 
the  material  selected.  Let  us  now  examine  his  manipulation  of 
the  older  play  in  the  light  of  the  theory  of  dramatic  contrast. 

Selection  implies  rejection.  Shakespeare,  in  his  ehmination 
of  numerous  episodes  that  found  place  in  The  Troublesome  Raigne 
cleared  the  way  for  an  intelligent  treatment  of  the  episodes  that 
remained.  The  older  play,  which  begins  with  John's  seizure  of 
the  English  throne  and  ends  with  the  acceptance  of  Prince  Henry 
as  King  and  the  making  of  peace  with  the  Dauphin  of  France,  he 
wisely  decapitated  and  curtailed.  Episodes  in  the  older  play 
which  did  not  find  their  way  into  King  John  are :  The  capture  of 
Queen  Elinor  by  the  French  and  her  subsequent  rescue,  briefly 
recounted  by  Shakespeare  (III.  ii.);  a  scene  in  which  Peter  of 
Pomfret  figures  conspicuously  but  needlessly  and  irrelevantly;  the 
temporary  conversion  of  the  barons,  through  the  pleadings  of 
Faulconbridge,  to  their  allegiance  to  John;  a  call  for  papal  aid 
sent  by  the  King  to  Cardinal  Pandulph,  and  Faulconbridge's 
protest  against  John's  subserviency  to  the  Pope;  the  solemn  oath 
sworn  by  the  barons,  before  the  altar  of  Edmundsbury,  to  renounce 
their  allegiance  to  John.  Of  such  episodes  Shakespeare  was 
unquestionably  well  rid;  in  one  way  or  another  each  of  them  would 
have  clogged  and  not  clarified  the  audience's  perception  of  the 
major  contrasts  upon  which  the  dramatic  value  of  the  play 
depends. 

75 


76  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE 's 

Two  scenes,  both  of  which  figure  in  the  older  play,  Shakespeare 
entirely  ignored;  and  while  his  procedure  must  win  the  hearty 
approval  of  all  good  monks  as  monks,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
dramatic  efficiency  it  is  open  to  question.  One  of  those  scenes  has 
reference  to  the  poisoning  of  King  John,  to  which  Shakespeare 
causes  Hubert  to  advert  (V.  vi.) : 

The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk. 

There  is  no  *T  fear"  in  the  older  play.  One  of  the  monks,  because 
John  contemned  the  Pope  and  never  loved  a  friar,  takes  a  solemn 
oath  to  administer  poison  to  the  King.  The  other  scene — 
undeniably  in  bad  taste,  but  undeniably  good  drama  to  an  Eliza- 
bethan audience,  wherein  are  depicted,  with  horseplay  comedy 
effect,  certain  alleged  irregularities  in  English  monasteries — ^has 
left  not  even  a  trace  in  Shakespeare's  play.  We  know,  indeed, 
that  Faulconbridge  goes  on  an  extorting  tour  among  the  monas- 
teries, but  we  do  not  follow  him  in  his  travels  or  share  in  his 
discoveries. 

Shakespeare  manifests  a  finer  sense  of  proportion  than  the 
unknown  author  of  the  older  play,  by  giving  less  attention  to 
Queen  Elinor  and  more  attention  to  the  Lady  Constance.  I 
know  that  many  critics  do  not  consider  the  Lady  Constance  a 
womanly  woman,  and  that  many  actors — and  actresses — ^regard 
hers  as  an  impossible  r61e;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the 
dramatic  value  of  the  scenes  in  which  she  appears,  whether  they 
be  her  scolding  match  with  the  English  Queen  or  her  reproaches 
leveled  at  the  inconstant  King  of  France  or  her  lamentations  over 
the  capture  of  her  son.  Throughout  she  is  in  clearly  defined 
contrast  with  the  two  kings,  with  Elinor,  with  the  Cardinal,  with 
all  the  world;  much  of  her  impressiveness  is  due  to  her  splendid 
isolation.  Shakespeare  might  have  minimized  Constance  in  the 
play  and  given  more  prominence  to  the  English  Queen;  but  his 
dramatic  intuition — this  time  sure — led  him  to  select  for  special 
attention  not  the  woman  who  shared  the  throne  of  England,  but 
the  woman  who,  absolutely  alone,  could  crouch  upon  the  cold 
earth  and  cry : 

Here  I  and  sorrow  sit; 

Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

Less  felicitous  was  Shakespeare's  adoption  of  Faulconbridge, 
a  character  who  in  The  Troublesome  Raigne  is  "a  hardy  wild  head, 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  77 

tough  and  venturous,"  who  aspires  to  the  hand  of  the  Lady 
Blanch  of  Spain,  and  who,  when  Austria  decHnes  to  fight  with 
him  because  of  their  unequal  rank,  is  instanter  created  Duke  of 
Normandy  by  King  John.  Here  Shakespeare  had  a  character  as 
isolated,  though  in  a  vastly  different  fashion,  as  the  Lady  Con- 
stance, a  character  eminently  fitted  to  play  Talbot  to  John's 
Henry  VI,  a  character  who  could  be  easily  employed  to  prevent 
this  play  from  being  what  it  actually  is,  a  drama  without  a  hero. 
Some  such  design  was  evidently  in  the  author's  mind  while  writing 
the  first  act,  for  there  Faulconbridge  holds  the  center  of  the  stage 
while  grave  affairs  of  state  are  thrust  aside  by  King,  Queen,  and 
court  that  the  audience  may  learn  all  the  details  of  Faulconbridge's 
edifying  family  history.  But  Shakespeare  changed  his  mind,  and 
we  have  Faulconbridge  not  as  hero  but  as  chorus;  though  his  wit 
is  nimble  and  his  sword  arm  strong,  he  is  employed  mainly  to 
talk  at  the  audience,  to  call  their  attention  to  the  existence  of  the 
contrasts  which  form  the  foundation  and  the  texture  of  the  play. 
Shakespeare  when  he  employs  the  soliloquy  is  at  his  best  and  at 
his  worst;  in  Othello  and  Hamlet  the  soliloquies  are  eminently 
dramatic  because  they  embody  contrasts;  in  King  Richard  III 
and  King  John  they  are  eminently  undramatic,  because  they 
stand  entirely  outside  the  play  and  merely  point  to  contrasts  that 
exist  within  the  play.  No  hint  of  Faulconbridge's  soliloquies 
(I.  i.;  n.  i.;  IV.  iii.)  is  found  in  the  earlier  drama. 

Certain  individual  scenes  which  Shakespeare  took  bodily  from 
The  Troublesome  Raigne  he  nevertheless  so  reshaped  and  modified 
that  the  process  inevitably  recalls  the  hackneyed  but  illustrative 
brick-and-marble  metaphor.  Thus,  what  is  in  Shakespeare  the 
first  scene  of  the  third  act  was  essentially  contained  in  the  old 
play,  but  in  a  form  stilted,  lifeless,  mechanical;  the  cogs  of  con- 
trasts did  not  grip;  there  was  no  setting  off  of  character  against 
character,  motive  against  motive,  mood  against  mood.  How 
different  is  all  this  in  Shakespeare!  He  sets  the  two  kings  side  by 
side,  he  pairs  off  Austria  and  Faulconbridge,  Elinor  and  Constance, 
the  Dauphin  and  his  betrothed,  from  whose  side  he  leaps  at  war's 
alarms.  He  stages,  too,  that  magnificent  verbal  duel  between  the 
Cardinal  and  the  King — an  episode  that  not  even  the  most  be- 
draggled barn-stormers  can  enact  without  eliciting  from  the 
audience  a  responsive  thrill,  when  the  red  robed  figure  representing 


78  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

the  might  of  Rome  launches,  swift  and  unerring,  the  bolt  of  the 
Church's  ban. 

Another  scene  wherein  Shakespeare  showed  his  mastery — this 
time  mastery  evidenced  by  reserve  and  delicacy  in  etching  an 
obvious  contrast  that  might  easily  have  degenerated  into  rank 
theatricalism — is  given  us  in  the  King's  incitement  of  Hubert  to 
murder  Prince  Arthur.  The  Hubert  of  history — the  illustrious 
de  Burgh,  a  descendant  of  Charlemagne  and  the  most  serviceable 
man  in  the  kingdom  during  the  days  of  John  and  Henry  III — 
Shakespeare  probably  did  not  know;  at  all  events,  his  Hubert  is 
not  a  nobleman  and  seems  devoid  of  courtly  arts  and  graces. 
This  sinister,  laconic,  shaggy  henchman  is  in  contrast  at  all  points 
with  the  fawning,  garrulous,  and  polished  King,  who  deftly 
suggest  his  wishes  and  promises  liberal  and  vague  rewards. 

Again  does  Shakespeare  show  his  mastery  in  the  justly  popular 
scene  between  Hubert  and  the  boy  Arthur  (IV.  i.) .  If  Hubert  has 
been  in  contrast  with  King  John,  he  is  now  in  even  keener  con- 
trast with  this  child  whom — not  warranted  at  all  points  either  by 
his  source  play  or  by  history — Shakespeare  makes  young  and  gentle 
and  patient  and  thoroughly  amiable.  Numerous  touches  in  the 
scene  accentuate  the  underlying  contrast  between  the  innocent, 
helpless  youth  and  the  guilty,  all  sufficient  man.  Arthur  has  a 
genuine  affection  for  Hubert: 

I  would  to  heaven 
I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick, 

That  I  might  sit  all  night  and  watch  with  you. 

Tensely  dramatic  in  its  impressive  reserve  is  Arthur's  reception  of 
the  cruel  news : 

Arthur.     Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ? 

Hubert.     Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arthur.    And  will  you? 

Hubert.     And  I  will. 
After  begging  that  the  executioners  be  sent  away,  the  anguished 
boy,  hearing  a  sympathetic  comment  made  by  one  of  them,  sighs 
for  having  chid  away  an  unsuspected  friend : 

He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart. 
And  when  the  burning  iron  cools: 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  79 

There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal; 

The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out 

And  strewed  repentent  ashes  on  his  head. 

The  material  employed  by  Shakespeare  in  the  second  scene  of 
the  fourth  act  he  made  over  from  The  Troublesome  Raigne,  shift- 
ing and  stressing  in  accordance  with  the  principle  of  contrast. 
He  makes  much,  compared  with  his  predecessor,  of  John's  change 
of  heart  concerning  the  slaying  of  Arthur,  and  devotes  more 
space  to  his  reproaches  to  Hubert,  thus  placing  the  episode  in 
contrast,  point  for  point,  with  the  third  scene  of  Act  III;  he  sounds 
in  an  impressive  crescendo  the  rising  bruit  of  civil  strife  in  the 
protests  of  the  barons,  the  prophecies  of  Peter  of  Pomfret,  the 
reports  brought  in  by  Faulconbridge  and  Hubert,  and  the  rumor 

of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French 
That  were  embattailed  and  rank*d  in  Kent; 

and  he  shows  the  King  already  the  antithesis  of  the  bluff  monarch 
who  earlier  in  the  play  sent  back  Chatillon  to  be  the  trumpet  of 
his  wrath  and  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France. 

Shakespeare,  then,  unquestionably  improved  on  his  sources, 
and  unquestionably  his  deviations  therefrom  may  be  accounted 
for  on  the  principle  of  dramatic  contrast;  but  the  play  of  The  Life 
and  Death  of  King  John  remains  nevertheless  a  play  of  shreds  and 
patches — shoddy  shreds  and  purple  patches — a,  play  not  well 
articulated,  extremely  uneven  in  structure,  and  characterized  by  a 
notable  lack  of  central  theme.  As  we  have  seen,  several  individual 
characters  are  placed  in  an  environment  that  renders  them 
indubitably  dramatic  and  several  individual  scenes  are  arranged 
with  an  alert  eye  to  contrast;  but  the  play,  as  a  whole,  lacks  a 
fundamental  contrast  that  would  supply  the  needful  central 
theme  and  introduce  a  salutary  proportion. 

The  need  of  some  such  "big"  idea  is  not  my  discovery.  Most 
of  Shakespeare's  critics  and  commentators  have  called  attention 
to  the  same  deficiency;  and  one  of  them,  no  less  a  person  than 
CoUey  Gibber,  Esquire,  attempted  to  supply  the  lack.  In  1745, 
during  one  of  those  periodic  outbreaks  of  anti-CathoHc  feeUng 
that  we  have  come  to  regard  as  characteristic  of  London,  Gibber 
brought  out  at  Govent  Garden  a  freely  revised  version  of  Shake- 
speare's King  John  which  had  a  successful  run  of  ten  nights.  The 
play  was  entitled  Papal  Tyranny  in  the  Reign  of  King  John. 


80  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE* S 

I  should  hesitate  to  say  that  the  play — though  Gibber  modestly 
claimed  it  to  be  superior  to  Shakespeare's — is  a  good  play;  but 
the  title  is  an  excellent  title.  It  conveys  an  idea  of  contrast — 
which  might  or  might  not  take  the  form  of  conflict — and  suggests 
that  underlying  anthithesis  which  Shakespeare's  play  needs,  but 
has  not.  In  his  dedication  of  the  play  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield, 
Gibber  tells  why  he  was  moved  to  the  undertaking,  and  his  words 
are  well  worth  quoting: 

**In  all  the  historical  plays  of  Shakespear  there  is  scarcely  any 
fact  that  might  better  have  employed  his  genius  than  the  flaming 
contest  between  his  insolent  Holiness  and  King  John.  This  is  so 
remarkable  a  passage  in  our  histories,  that  it  seems  surprising 
that  our  Shakespear  should  have  taken  no  more  fire  at  it;  especially 
when  we  find  from  how  much  less  a  spark  of  contention  in  his 
first  act  of  Harry  the  Fourth  he  has  thrown  his  Hotspur  into  a 
more  naturally  fomented  rage  than  ever  ancient  or  modern  author 
has  come  up  to,  and  has  maintained  that  character  throughout 
the  play  with  the  same  inimitable  spirit.  How  then  shall  we 
account  for  his  being  so  cold  upon  a  so  much  higher  provocation  ? 
Shall  we  suppose,  that  in  those  days,  almost  in  the  infancy  of  the 
Reformation,  when  Shakespear  wrote,  when  the  influence  of  the 
papal  power  had  a  stronger  party  left  than  we  have  reason  to 
believe  is  now  subsisting  among  us;  that  this,  I  say,  might  make 
him  cautious  of  offending?  Or  shall  we  go  so  far  for  an  excuse 
as  to  conclude  that  Shakespear  was  himself  a  Gatholic?  .  .  . 
If  then  he  was  under  no  restraint  from  his  religion,  it  will  require 
a  nicer  criticism  than  I  am  master  of  to  excuse  his  being  so  cold 
upon  so  warm  an  occasion." 

Gibber  here  makes  it  plain  that,  though  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  Shakespeare's  failure  to  conceive  and  develop  a 
central  theme,  he  recognized  what  is  without  doubt  the  organic 
weakness  of  the  play.  And  so,  in  his  version.  Gibber  proceeded 
to  ''inspirit  his  King  John  with  a  resentment  that  justly  might 
become  an  English  monarch,  and  to  paint  the  intoxicated  tyranny 
of  Rome  in  its  proper  colours."  "Intoxicated  tyranny,"  however 
its  absurdity  might  today  provoke  a  smile,  was  taken  seriously 
enough  by  the  Govent  Garden  audiences  who  gave  the  play, 
says  Gibber,  their  "honest,  cordial  applauses";  and  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  implied  contrast  between  Ghurch  and  State  would 
have  furnished  Shakespeare  a  basic  idea  susceptible,  indeed,  of 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  81 

an  interpretation  other  than  that  elected  by  Gibber,  but  in  any 
case  an  idea  eminently  dramatic. 

To  attempt  to  discover  Shakespeare's  reasons  for  not  utilizing 
some  such  idea  is  beyond  the  scope  of  this  study"  and  besides,  to 
borrow  Gibber's  words,  would  "require  a  nicer  criticism  than  I 
am  master  of."  It  may  have  been  Gatholic  sympathies;  or  again 
it  may  have  been  Protestant  sympathies,  for  the  dramatist  who 
would  set  forth  the  relations  between  King  John  and  the  Holy 
See  must,  however  reluctantly,  admit  that  the  English  monarch 
was  worsted  in  the  conflict  which  he  himself  had  begun.  It  may 
have  been  a  lapse  of  insight,  due  perhaps  to  carelessness  and  haste 
in  composition  and  to  too  exclusive  an  absorption  in  the  work  of 
condensing  The  Troublesome  Raigne.  At  all  events,  the  fact 
remains  that,  in  manipulating  the  older  play,  Shakespeare,  by 
means  of  contrast,  rendered  more  dramatic  individual  scenes  and 
individual  characters,  and  that,  by  neglecting  to  bring  out  a 
pervading  and  fundamental  contrast,  he  failed  to  impart  a  unified 
dramatic  quality  to  the  play  as  a  whole. 

*•  Some  unique  and,  at  times,  diverting  views  on  this  subject  are  presented 
by  Wilkes  in  Shakespeare  from  an  American  Point  of  View. 


VIII. 
THE  FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV 

The  two  plays  of  King  Henry  IV  and  the  play  of  King  Henry  V 
might  be  appropriately  styled  the  Prince  Hal  Trilogy,  for  Harry 
of  Monmouth,  Prince  of  Wales  and  afterward  King  of  England, 
is  their  undisputed  hero.  The  story  they  tell — a  story  made  up 
of  many  strands  and  sometimes,  as  in  the  second  drama  of  the 
trilogy,  told  haltingly  enough — is  the  story  of  Prince  Henry*s 
life  and  fame  and  fortunes,  of  his  relatives  and  companions  and 
servants  and  enemies  and  friends.  Prince  Hal  does  not  dominate 
the  plays  as  compellingly  and  insistently  as  Gloucester  dominates 
King  Richard  III,  nor  does  he  achieve  and  maintain  his  place  as 
protagonist  invested  with  the  constantly  growing  pathos  which 
appears  in  the  figure  of  King  Richard  II ;  in  the  two  plays  of  King 
Henry  JF  he  shares  his  prominence  with  Hotspur  and  Falstaff, 
but  the  dramas  are  so  contrived  that  both  Hotspur  and  Falstaff 
are  closely  bound  up  with  the  interests  of  the  leading  figure. 

These  three  plays  are  further  remarkable  for  embodying  the 
only  notable  instances  in  the  English  historical  dramas  where 
Shakespeare  from  time  to  time  bids  the  deep  browed  muse  of 
history  wait  in  the  wings  while  he  summons  the  muse  of  comedy 
to  disport  herself  on  the  stage.  The  alternation  of  scenes  grave 
and  gay,  which  so  deeply  offended  Voltaire  and  other  continental 
critics,  seems  to  be  one  of  the  heritages  bequeathed  to  the  English 
drama  from  the  religious  plays  of  the  Middle  Ages,  wherein  a 
laugh-provoking  devil  and  a  blustering  Herod  were  wont  to  follow 
hard  upon  the  heels  of  saints  and  virtuous  abstractions,  and  a 
shepherd  to  engage  in  horseplay  immediately  before  the  angels 
announce  the  glad  tidings  on  the  hillside  at  Bethlehem.  In  those 
plays  Shakespeare  took  a  perceptible  stride  in  his  development 
as  a  dramatist;  while  continuing  to  follow  his  sources  with  a  fair 
measure  of  closeness  in  the  strictly  historical  scenes,  he  gave 
himself  more  latitude  in  the  introduction  and  elaboration  of 
humorous  episodes. 

For  his  historical  scenes  in  I  Henry  IV  Shakespeare  continued 
to  draw  freely  upon  Holinshed  and  derived  a  few  unimportant 

82 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  83 

details  from  the  chronicle  of  Stowe;  for  his  comic  scenes  he  is 
himself  almost  entirely  responsible.  True,  he  undoubtedly  found 
some  material  for  his  Eastcheap  and  Gadshill  episodes  in  an  old 
play  entitled  The  Famous  Victories  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  which  was 
acted  as  early  as  1588  and  which  found  its  way  into  print  in  1594; 
but  his  indebtedness  to  this  drama  is  by  no  means  so  great  as  was 
his  indebtedness  to  The  Troublesome  Raigne  in  King  John.  He 
did  not  follow  The  Famous  Victories  in  detail;  most  of  it  he  wisely 
ignored,  and  what  he  did  take  from  it  he  thoroughly  revised, 
expanded,  and  transmuted. 

The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  IV  gives  us  a  wealth  of  material 
for  a  discussion  of  Shakespeare's  manipulation  of  his  scenes  and 
characters  in  the  light  of  the  theory  of  contrast — the  theory,  by 
the  way,  that  comes  nearest  to  explaining  the  dramatic  value  of 
alternating  tragedy  and  comedy  in  the  one  play.  The  theory  of 
contrast,  applied  to  /  Henry  IV,  furnishes  adequate  reasons  for 
Shakespeare's  selections  and  rejections  from  Holinshed  and  for 
his  very  considerable  expansion  and  remolding  of  the  suggestions 
he  adopted  from  The  Famous  Victories. 

In  the  person  of  the  young  Prince  of  Wales  Shakespeare  was 
supplied,  ready-to-hand,  with  a  character  who  involved  contrasts 
within  himself.  It  is  pretty  generally  agreed  upon  by  scholars 
that  the  stories  of  the  Prince's  youthful  follies — ^stories  that  held 
their  ground  largely  because  of  their  inherent  dramatic  quality — 
had  but  a  slender  basis  in  actuaUty;  but  this  Shakespeare  was 
obviously  not  in  a  position  to  know.  The  chroniclers  stressed 
young  Henry's  wild  oats  era  and  so  did  the  old  play,  and  Shakes- 
peare eagerly  accepted  a  version  that  involved  the  striking  con- 
trast of  a  man  who,  leading  a  wild  and  tumultuous  life  as  the  son 
of  the  King,  forthwith  becomes  a  model  man  and  a  brilliant  ruler 
when  he  ascends  the  throne. 

Shakespeare  accepted  this  version,  but  he  did  so  with  a  dif- 
ference. Throughout  the  play  he  takes  pains  to  impress  us  with 
the  behef  that  Henry  is  in  the  slums  but  not  of  them,  that  he 
associates  with  the  scum  and  riffraff  of  London  society  and  yet 
keeps  himself  unspotted  of  the  mad  world  in  which  he  takes  his 
pleasure.  Into  the  mouth  of  the  Prince  he  puts  a  clear  and 
explicit  declaration  of  motives  (I.  ii.) : 


84  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE* S 

I  know  you  all,  and  will  a  while  uphold 
The  unyoked  humour  of  your  idleness: 
Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun, 
Who  doth  permit  the  base  contagious  clouds 
To  smother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world, 
That  when  he  pleases  again  to  be  himself, 
Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wonder'd  at. 
By  breaking  through  the  foul  and  ugly  mists 
Of  vapors  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him. 

My  reformation,  glittering  o'er  my  fault. 
Shall  show  more  goodly  and  attract  more  eyes 
Than  that  which  hath  no  foil  to  set  it  off. 
I'll  so  offend,  to  make  offence  a  skill; 
Redeeming  time  when  men  think  least  I  will. 

A  conventional  criticism  of  these  lines  is  that  in  them  Prince 
Hal  shows  himself  to  be  a  good  deal  of  a  prig  and  a  hypocrite, 
that  he  has  not  the  mettle  to  face  his  faults  like  a  man  but  gives 
himself  specious  reasons  for  doing  the  things  he  should  not  do. 
That  criticism  rests  upon  a  misconception  of  the  function  of  the 
soliloquy  in  which  the  lines  appear.  As  has  been  suggested  in 
our  study  of  King  John,  we  find  two  distinct  classes  of  soliloquies 
in  Shakespeare — those  which  reveal  the  character  and  motives  of 
the  person  thus  thinking  aloud  and  those  which  really  constitute 
a  direct  statement  of  things  to  the  audience.  Now,  in  the  soliloquy 
just  quoted.  Prince  Hal  seems  to  be  revealing  his  own  character 
and  motives,  he  seems  to  be  thinking  aloud;  but  the  soliloquy  is  in 
fact  one  of  the  other  type,  and  the  Prince  is  forced  by  his  creator 
to  engage  in  the  ungrateful  task  of  acting  as  his  own  chorus.  Shake- 
speare, rather  than  the  Prince,  speaks  to  the  audience;  and  he 
tells  them,  plainly  enough,  to  expect  the  unexpected,  to  be  on  the 
lookout  for  contrasts  in  the  career  of  this  scion  of  royalty.  The 
device  is  crude  and  inartistic  and  as  little  dramatic  here  as  it  is 
when  employed  in  the  soliloquies  of  Faulconbridge  in  King  John; 
but  it  does  serve  to  call  attention  to  the  contrasts  which,  inhering 
in  the  life  of  the  future  King  Henry  V,  make  him  a  dramatic 
figure. 

Note,  too,  that  Shakespeare  takes  pains,  in  that  soliloquy  and 
elsewhere,  to  tone  down  the  contrasts  in  Prince  Hal's  life;  he  is 
extremely  careful  to  make  of  him  an  experimenter  with  vice,  a 
taster  rather  than  a  thirster  for  the  cup  of  iniquity.     Had  he, 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  85 

following  his  sources  blindly,  given  us  a  Prince  Hal  who  is  a 
thoroughly  bad  lot,  who  is  a  brawler,  a  drunkard,  a  lecher,  and  a 
thief,  and  suddenly  changed  such  a  one  into  an  ideal  king,  there 
would  assuredly  be  contrast,  but  contrast  that  overleaps  the 
bounds  of  probabihty.  Theatrical  often,  but  dramatic  never,  is 
the  sudden  conversion  of  villains.  Some  such  contrast  in  the  raw 
Shakespeare  might  have  accepted  in  his  apprentice  days,  the 
days  that  brought  forth  Talbot  and  la  Pucelle;  but  now  he  was 
a*rer  of  himseK  and  had  learned  the  value  of  artistic  repression, 
frhe  numerous  contrasts  in  /  Henry  IV  are  not  the  bUnding  and 
Unconvincing  contrasts  of  black  and  white;  the  master  has  by 
..^s  time  learned  somewhat  the  significance  of  shades  and  tones. 
This  is  brought  home  to  us  by  reflection  on  an  omission  that 
Shakespeare  made  when  writing  the  second  scene  of  Act  III,  an 
omission  trivial  enough  in  itself  but  suggestive  as  bearing  on  the 
development  of  the  dramatist  and  on  his  manipulation  of  his 
sources.  According  to  Holinshed  (III.  539.),  when  the  Prince 
went  to  the  coiu-t,  "apparelled  in  a  gown  of  blue  satin,  full  of 
small  eyelet  holes,  at  every  hole  the  needle  hanging  by  a  silk 
thread,  with  which  it  was  sewed,"  he  was  accompanied  "with 
such  a  number  of  noblemen  and  other  his  friends  that  wished 
him  well,  as  the  like  train  had  seldom  been  seen  repairing  to  the 
court  at  any  one  time  in  those  days."  Going  in  alone  to  his 
father,  "then  grievously  diseased,"  he  knelt  down  and  pleaded 
his  affection  and  loyalty.  He  concluded  by  drawing  his  dagger 
after  the  fashion  of  Cassius  in  the  tent  at  Sardis — extending  it  to 
the  King  and  exclaiming:  "I  beseech  you,  most  redoubted  lord 
and  dear  father,  for  the  honour  of  God,  to  ease  your  heart  of  all 
such  suspicion  as  you  have  of  me,  to  despatch  me  here  before  your 
knees,  with  this  same  dagger."  Verily,  here  was  something  to 
feast  the  eyes  and  spht  the  ears  of  the  groundlings;  but  Shakes- 
peare left  it  out.  He  saw  in  it  a  contrast  that  would  be  dramatic 
in  Julius  Caesar  but  theatrical  here.  Instead,  he  constructed  a 
scene  stately  in  tempo  and  devoid  of  movement  and  yet  which 
is  absorbingly  dramatic— the  Bolingbroke,  now  King,  who  drove 
Richard  from  the  throne,  makes  his  peace  with  the  son  who  has 
caused  him  grief.  Beautifully  does  the  King  point  out  the  con- 
trast between  his  own  youth  and  that  of  his  wayward  son: 


86  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE' S 

Had  I  so  lavish  of  my  presence  been, 
So  common  hackney'd  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company. 
Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  crown, 
Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession, 
And  left  me  in  reputeless  banishment, 
A  fellow  of  no  mark  nor  likelihood. 

Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh  and  new; 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical, 
Ne'er  seen  but  wonder'd  at:  and  so  my  state. 
Seldom  but  sumptions,  showed  like  a  feast. 
And  won  by  rareness  such  solemnity. 

The  dominant  contrast  in  /  Henry  IV  is  that  between  Prince 
Hal  and  Hotspur,  a  contrast  which  affords  an  excellent  illustration 
I  of  Shakespeare's  selection  from  the  material  at  his  disposal  and  of 
his  pi;ocess  of  piecing  out  that  material  the  better  to  subserve  his 
ends.l  The  Hotspur  of  history  was  a  gallant  soldier,  and  that  is 
"""^ubsTantially  all  that  is  known  of  his  personal  traits.  He  was 
called  Hotspur,  according  to  one  account,  "from  his  much  prick- 
ing"; according  to  another  (Knighton),  "because,  in  the  silence 
of  the  night,  and  while  others  reposed  in  sleep,  he  would  labor 
indefatigably  against  his  enemy,  as  if  heating  his  spurs."  But, 
historically,  as  Courtenay"  explains,  "the  surname  of  Hotspur 
had  no  reference  to  his  disposition  of  temper,"  which  was  a  brilliant 
invention  of  the  dramatist. 

Admirable  is  the  manner  in  which  Shakespeare  brings  out  the 

.contrasting  characters  of  the  two  Harrys.     Though  they  do  not 

I  meet  face  to  face  until  the  decisive  day  at  Shrewsbury,  all  through 

the  play  the  audience  is  forced  to  keep  them  in  mind  and  to 

;  institute  a  detailed  comparison.     The  difference  between  them  is 

i  much  in  the  King's  thoughts,  and  elements  in  the  comparison  are 

being  furnished  by  remarks  put  into  the  mouths  of  the  other 

j  characters;  the  two  Harrys,  indeed,  speak  of  each  other,  and  in 

I  eminently  characteristic  style.      As  the  "madcap  Prince  of  Wales" 

j    is  brought  into  relief  by  contracts  with  his  father,  his  brother,  and 

1   his  companions  of  the  tavern,  so  "the  Hotspur  of  the  north;  he 

'   that  kills  me  some  six  or  seven  doxen  of  Scots  at  a  breakfast, 

i  washes  his  hands,  and  says  to  his  wife  *Fie  upon  this  quiet  life! 

1  I  want  work,'  "  is  made  distinct  and  clear  cut  by  a  series  of  con- 


^'  Commentaries,  II.  89, 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  87 

trasts  with  his  slow  going  father,  his  foxy  uncle,  the  perfumed 
lordling,  the  wearisome  Glendower,  the  winsome  LadyPerc^. 
No  historical  warrant  exists  for  Shakespeare's  presentation  of 
Glendower  as  a  bore  against  whom  the  practical,  impatient 
Hotspur  protests  (III.  i.) : 

O  he  is  as  tedious 
As  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house:  I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlick  in  a  windmill,  far, 
Than  feed  on  cates  and  have  him  talk  to  me 
In  any  summer  house  in  Christendom. 

And  the  contrast  between  Hotspur  and  his  wife — a  contrast  which 
so  finely  sets  in  relief  the  abruptness  and  stubbornness  of  the 
man — is  likewise  Shakespeare's  invention;  history  records  nothing 
more  than  the  bare  fact  of  Lady  Percy's  existence.        __ 


With  consummate  art  Shakespeare  brings  the  contrasts  of  the 
two  Harrys  to  a  splendid  culmination  on  the  field  of  Shrewsbury. 
For  the  first  time  the  rivals  meet  face  to  face.  Igrmring  the-iact 
that  the  Hotspur  of  history  was  at  the  very  least  as  old  as  Prince 
Hal's  father,  Shakespeare  heightens  and  points  the  contrast  by 
making  them  of  the  one  age;  jSrigi^nd  brilliant  is  their  conversa- 
tion; they  fight,  and  Harry  Percy  falls.  "Adieu,"  cries  the 
chivalrous  victor,  never  more  a  prince  than  now,  "and  take  thy 
praise  with  thee  to  heaven!"  Here  once  more  Shakespeare 
deviated  from  his  sources;  Hotspur  fell  by  an  unknown  hand. 

If  I  Henry  IV  is  rich  in  contrasts  of  character,  it  is  not  less  so 
in  contrasts  of  scene.  The  tavern  scenes,  wherein  the  Prince 
appears  often  and  Hotspur  never,  are  set  off  against  the  home 
scenes,  wherein  Percy  dominates  and  the  Prince  never  intrudes. 
A  further  contrast  exists  between  the  court  scenes  and  the  battle 
scenes,  in  the  former  of  which  the  two  Harrys  are  flitting  visitants, 
in  the  latter  meeting  for  the  only  time  in  life.  This  is  something 
inbfe  than  the  mere  alternation  of  scenes  grave  and  gay;  it  is  the 
contrast,  exquisitely  shaded  and  blended,  of  four  varying  environ- 
ments, each  a  background  shaped  and  adapted  for  throwing  into 
rehef  the  people  in  the  play.  Two  scenes  in  /  Henry  /F,  in  both 
of  which  Shakespeare  transcended  his  sources,  merit  special 
attention.  One  of  them,  the  fourth  scene  in  the  fifth  act,  is  as 
fine  a  presentation  of  the  ironic  contrasts  of  life  as  Shakespeare 
ever  conceived.     The  two  Harrys  have  fought,  and  Percy  lies 


88  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

dead,  "food  for  worms."  Near  by  Kes  Sir  John  Falstaff,  feigning 
death.  The  hero  of  the  north  and  the  braggart  of  Eastcheap — ^he 
who  had  thought 

it  were  an  easy  leap, 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-faced  moon, 

and  he  who  had  declared  that  same  honor  to  be  "a  mere  scutcheon" 
— ^lie  side  by  side;  and  the  rigid  body  of  the  fiery  Hotspur  is  pre- 
sently borne  off  on  the  back  of  the  chuckling  knight.  The  spectacle 
recalls  the  words  but  a  moment  before  uttered  by  the  Prince : 

lU-weaved  ambition,  how  much  art  thou  shrunk! 
When  that  this  body  did  contain  a  spirit, 
A  kingdom  for  it  was  too  small  a  bound. 

The  other  scene  (II.  iv.)  has  been  declared,  and  apparently 
with  justice,  the  most  comical  stage  picture  in  Shakespeare. 
Through  it  contrasts,  singly  and  in  battalions,  play  back  and 
forth;  and  while  Mistress  Quickly  screams  her  admiration  and 
Bardolph's  nose  shines  beaconlike  through  the  foetid  air,  Sir  John 
Falstaff  explains  how  it  is  that  he  was  a  coward  on  compulsion. 
And  then,  the  same  Sir  John,  the  uncrowned  king  of  Eastcheap, 
assumes  for  the  nonce  the  trappings  of  mock  royalty:  "This 
chair  shall  be  my  state,  this  dagger  my  sceptre,  and  this  cushion 
my  crown";  and  forthwith  he  plays  the  Prince's  father  "in  King 
Cambyses'  vein."  Nor  is  that  all.  Conditions  are  speedily 
reversed;  the  madcap  Prince  impersonates  the  King,  Falstaff  plays 
the  Prince;  and  in  that  role  saves  the  scene  from  anticlimax  and 
carries  it  to  a  glorious  fulness  by  his  mock  heroic  plea — ^for  himself: 
^*Banish  plump  Jack,  and  banish  all  the  world." 


IX. 
THE  SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV 

Mr.  Herford,  in  The  Eversley  Shakespeare,  writes:  "The 
pohtical  movements  of  Henry  IV's  reign,  as  told  by  Shakespeare's 
standard  authorities,  Holinshed  and  Hall,  offered  little  salient 
matter  for  the  dramatist.  Nevertheless  it  is  here  that  he  most 
decisively  abandons  the  boldly  reconstructive  methods  of  Mar- 
lowe; here  that  he  unfolds  with  consummate  power  his  own  method 
of  creating  character  and  detail  within  the  hmits  of  a  general 
fidelity  to  recorded  fact.  His  most  direct  divergences  from  the 
tale  of  the  chroniclers  amount  to  little  more  than  compressions  of 
isolated  and  scattered  events.  But  he  supplements  their  tale 
and  interprets  their  silence  with  a  prodigal  magnificence  of  in- 
vention unapproached  in  the  other  Histories.  Hence  Henry  IV 
presents  analogies  to  the  group  of  brilliant  Comedies  with  which 
it  was  nearly  contemporary,  not  only  in  its  obvious  wealth  of 
comic  genius,  but  in  the  points  at  which  this  is  exercised.  The 
historic  matter,  Hke  the  serious  story  of  Twelfth  Night  or  Much 
AdOy  is  taken  over  without  substantial  change;  while  within  its 
meshes  plays  a  lambent  humour  which,  ostensibly  subordinate 
and  by  the  way,  in  reality  reveals  the  finer  significance  of  the 
derived  story  itself,  and  forms,  as  literature,  the  crowning  glory 
of  the  whole." 

In  both  plays  of  King  Henry  IV  it  is  needful  that  we  draw  this 
distinction  between  the  historical  and  the  humorous  elements; 
but  while  in  the  First  Part  the  two  classes  of  scenes  stand  in  vivid 
contrast  and  each  admirably  sets  off  the  other,  in  the  Second  Part 
the  contrast  perceptibly  weakens  and  the  result  is  a  vastly  inferior 
play.  Justice  Shallow  and  Master  Silence — ^both,  of  course,  of 
the  dramatist's  own  invention — are  well  defined  and  enjoyable 
characters;  yet,  somehow,  the  scenes  in  which  they  figure  do  not 
fit  into  the  scheme  of  the  play  as  a  whole.  Shakespeare  does 
somewhat  better  with  the  tavern  and  street  scenes,  but  even  here 
the  contrast  with  the  court  scenes  is  less  gripping,  and  therefore 
less  effective,  than  in  the  First  Part.  Should  we  strive  to  reach 
the  wherefore  of  the  generally  admitted  fact  that  the  keystone 
play  of  the  Prince  Hal  trilogy  is,  taken  by  and  large,  a  drama 
inferior  to  its  predecessor,  we  shall  not  go  astray  if  we  apply  to  it 

80 


90  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

the  theory  of  contrast  and  in  the  Hght  of  the  theory  discover  the 
real  secret  of  its  weakness. 

And  conversely,  the  structure  of  this  play  throws  additional 
light  on  dramatic  contrast  itseK.  It  helps  to  clarify  our  conception 
of  what  is  and  what  is  not  contrast.  Nobody  would  think  of 
saying,  for  example,  that  a  contrast  exists  between  LucuUus  and 
the  fourth  dimension,  for  the  all  sufficient  reason  that,  in  so  far  as 
normal  mind  can  probe,  LucuUus  and  the  fourth  dimension  have 
nothing  in  common;  but  it  is  quite  possible  to  establish  a  contrast 
between  Lucullus  and  Robert  Herrick,  between  the  fourth  dimen- 
sion and,  let  us  say,  thickness,  because  in  these  cases  we  have 
some  underlying  similarity  or  some  other  than  wholly  arbitrary 
association  upon  which  our  comparison,  to  result  in  contrast, 
must  rest. 

Contrast  in  the  drama,  therefore,  is  something  more  than 
taking  two  persons  or  two  events  or  two  environments  and  placing 
them  opposite  each  other  and  saying  with  Hamlet,  "Look  here 
upon  this  picture  and  on  this."  We  may  indeed  look,  but  we 
perceive  nothing  dramatic  if  we  fail  to  sense  the  underlying 
something  in  common.  Hamlet  did  in  fact  call  his  mother's 
attention  to  a  contrast — that  is,  to  the  points  of  difference  in  two 
things  fundamentally  similar — in  "the  counterfeit  presentment 
of  two  brothers";  there  would  have  been  no  contrast  had  he 
presented  to  the  lady's  attention,  not  two  kings,  but  Claudius 
and  the  front  elevation  of,  the  battlements  of  Elsinore.  Shake- 
speare set  forth  a  true  contrast  when  in  I  King  Henry  IV  he  showed 
side  by  side  the  royal  court  at  Westminster  and  the  mock  court  in 
Eastcheap;  his  procedure  was  less  felicitous  when,  in  II  Henry  /F, 
he  showed  on  the  one  hand  the  last  moments  of  King  Henry  IV 
and  on  the  other  the  visit  of  Falstaff  to  the  home  of  Justice  Shallow* 

In  //  Henry  /F,  Shakespeare's  adherence  to  his  authorities  in 
the  historical  scenes  of  the  play  is  especially  noteworthy.  True, 
he  continues  to  flout  chronology;  true,  he  modifies  several  of  the 
characters  with  subtle  touches  of  delineation;  true,  he  senses  the 
spirit  of  the  truth  of  history  behind  the  reputed  facts  of  history 
and  not  infrequently  is  false  to  the  letter  that  he  may  be  true  to 
the  spirit.  But,  in  the  main,  he  continues  to  take  his  Holinshed 
unprotestingly  and  occasionally  accepts  a  touch  or  two  from 
Stowe. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  91 

This  closeness  is  well  exemplified  in  a  comparison  that  might 
readily  be  made  between  the  impression  of  Henry  IV  we  receive 
from  this  play  and  the  summary  of  his  character  furnished  by 
Holinshed  (III.  541.):  *The  king  was  .  .  .  quick  and 
lively  and  of  a  stout  courage.  In  his  latter  days  he  showed 
himself  so  gentle  that  he  got  more  love  amongst  the  nobles  and 
people  of  this  realm  than  he  had  purchased  malice  and  evil  will 
in  the  beginning.  But  yet,  to  speak  a  truth,  by  his  proceedings 
.  .  .  he  was  himself  more  hated  than  in  all  his  lifetime  (if  it 
had  been  longer  by  many  years  than  it  was)  had  been  possible  for 
him  to  have  weeded  out  and  removed." 

Shakespeare  certainly  drew  his  portrait  of  the  last  days  of 
Henry  BoHngbroke  in  the  light  of  that  brief  description.  Henry 
grows  upon  us  in  this  play,  and  he  really  enlists  our  sympathies. 
His  noted  apostrophe  to  sleep  (III.  i.)  is  Shakespeare's  own 
invention — a  dramatic  bit  filled  with  minor  contrasts  and  embody- 
ing the  doleful  thoughts  of  a  man  who  had  for  the  sake  of  pros- 
pective happiness  usurped  the  throne.  But  it  is  in  the  crown 
scene  (IV.  v.)  that  Shakespeare's  manipulation  of  his  material  is 
shown  to  unusual  advantage — a  manipulation  which,  while  not 
outraging  the  spirit  of  truth,  yet  deals  freely  with  the  body  of 
fact.     Here  is  the  story  as  related  by  Holinshed  (III.  541)  : 

"During  this  his  last  sickness,  he  caused  his  crown  (as  some 
write)  to  be  set  on  a  pillow  at  his  bed's  head.  And  suddenly  his 
pangs  so  sore  troubled  him  that  he  lay  as  though  all  his  vital 
spirits  had  been  from  him  departed.  Such  as  were  about  him, 
thinking  verily  that  he  had  been  departed,  covered  his  face  with 
a  Hnen  cloth.  The  prince,  his  son,  being  hereof  advertised, 
entered  into  the  chamber,  took  away  the  crown,  and  departed. 
The  father,  being  suddenly  revived  out  of  that  trance,  quickly 
perceived  the  lack  of  his  crown;  and,  having  knowledge  that  the 
prince  his  son  had  taken  it  away,  caused  him  to  come  before  his 
presence,  requiring  of  him  what  he  meant  so  to  misuse  himself. 
The  prince,  with  a  good  audacity,  answered:  *Sir,  to  mine  and 
all  men's  judgments  you  seemed  dead  in  this  world;  wherefore 
I,  as  your  next  heir  apparent,  took  that  as  mine  own,  and  not  as 
yours.'  *Well,  fair  son,'  said  the  king  with  a  great  sigh,  Vhat  right 
I  had  to  it,  God  knoweth.'  'Well,'  said  the  prince,  'if  you  die 
king,  I  will  have  the  garland,  and  trust  to  keep  it  with  the  sword 
against  all  mine  enemies,  as  you  have  done.'    Then  said  the 


92  CONTRAST  IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

king,  *I  commit  all  to  God,  and  remember  you  to  do  well/  With 
that  he  turned  himself  in  his  bed,  and  shortly  after  departed  to 
God  in  a  chamber  of  the  abbot's  of  Westminster  called  Jerusalem." 
The  conduct  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  as  set  forth  in  Holinshed, 
could  be  variously  interpreted.  His  "good  audacity"  Shake- 
speare accepted  in  the  most  favorable  sense,  and  set  him  in  con- 
trast with  his  dying  father.  The  most  difficult  part  of  the  drama- 
tist's task  was  to  give  a  reason  for  Prince  Hal's  taking  the  crown  that 
would  not  in  some  way  reflect  on  his  filial  devotion  and  that  would 
not  violate  inherent  probabiHty.  He  solved  the  problem  by 
having  the  Prince  estimate  the  true  worth  of  the  crown  as  a  trouble- 
some bedfellow,  "polished  perturbation,  golden  care,"  and  by 
having  him  thus  express  himself  when  he  fancied  his  father  to  be 
dead: 

Thy  due  from  me 
Is  tears  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood. 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 
Shall,  O  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously : 
My  due  from  thee  is  this  imperial  crown, 
Which,  as  immediate  from  thy  place  and  blood. 
Derive  itself  to  me.     Lo,  here  it  sits. 
Which  God  shall  guard. 

Warwick,  having  summoned  the  Prince  a  little  later  at  the  King's 
command,  tells  how  he 

found  the  prince  in  the  next  room, 
Washing  with  kindly  tears  his  gentle  cheeks, 
With  such  a  deep  demeanor  in  great  sorrow. 
That  tyranny,  which  never  quaff'd  but  blood. 
Would,  by  beholding  him,  have  wash'd  his  knife 
With  gentle  eye-drops. 

The  King,  sending  away  all  the  others,  reproaches  Prince  Hal 
for  his  unseemly  haste;  whereupon  Shakespeare,  who  knew  the 
psychological  importance  of  repetition,  has  the  son  explain  his 
motives: 

Coming  to  look  on  you,  thinking  you  dead, 

And  dead  almost,  my  liege,  to  think  you  were, 

I  spake  unto  this  crown  as  having  sense. 

And  thus  upbraided  it:  "The  care  on  thee  depending 

Hath  fed  upon  the  body  of  my  father; 

Therefore,  thou  best  of  gold  art  worst  of  gold: 

Other,  less  fine  in  caret,  is  more  precious, 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  9S 

Preserving  life  in  medicine  potable; 

But  thou,  most  fine,  most  honour'd,  most  renowned, 

Hast  eat  thy  bearer  up."     Thus,  my  most  royal  liege, 

Accusing  it,  I  put  it  on  my  head. 

To  try  with  it,  as  with  an  enemy 

That  had  before  my  face  murdered  my  father, 

The  quarrel  of  a  true  inheritor. 

But  if  it  did  infect  my  blood  with  joy. 

Or  swell  my  thoughts  to  any  strain  of  pride; 

If  any  rebel  or  vain  spirit  of  mine 

Did  with  the  least  affection  of  a  welcome 

Give  entertainment  to  the  might  of  it, 

Let  God  forever  keep  it  from  my  head, 

And  make  me  as  the  poorest  vassal  is. 

That  doth  with  awe  and  terror  kneel  to  it. 

But  why  is  the  dramatist  so  insistent  on  making  it  trebly  clear  t 
that  Prince  Hal  acted  worthily  in  taking  away  the  crown  ?  Be-  ^ 
cause  Prince  Hal,  the  hero  of  the  trilogy,  must  not  be  found  doing 
anything  that  would  lessen  his  heroicity.  That  heroicity  is  in 
this  instance  made  to  shine  by  contrast — the  contrast  symbolized 
by  the  speeches  of  the  King  before  and  after  his  son's  explanation, 
the  contrast  found  in  the  lives  of  all  heroes  who  are  forced  to 
embrace  the  appearance  of  evil  while  refraining  themselves  from 
the  evil  itself.  Among  the  braggarts,  blades,  and  brawlers  of 
Eastcheap,  Prince  Hal  is  in  the  world  but  not  of  it;  among  the 
thieves  of  royal  crowns — his  own  father  being  one — ^Prince  Hal 
is  in  motive  sui  generis. 

As  in  the  First  Part,  so  here,  Shakespeare  continues  to  paint 
the  hero's  portrait  by  means  of  contrasting  pictures.  We  observe 
the  comparison  impHed  between  Hal  and  his  brother  John.  Fal- 
staff,  is  at  pains  to  tell  us  that  John,  "this  same  young  sober- 
blooded  boy  dot  h  not  love  me,  nor  a  man  cannot  make  him  laugh, 
but  that's  no  marvel,  he  drinks  no  wine" — truly  a  deadly  indictment 
drawn  against  a  total  abstainer,  though  coming  possibly  from  a 
prejudiced  source.  This  same  "sober-blooded"  John  of  Lancaster 
plays  a  decidedly  shabby  trick  on  Archbishop  Scroop  and  the 
rebels  (IV.  ii.),  a  ruse  that  is  unworthy  of  him.  It  was  surely  in 
the  interests  of  the  contrast  between  John  and  his  elder  brother 
that  Shakespeare  here  painted  in  a  few  unjustified  strokes.  For  it 
was  not  Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  but  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland, 
whom  Holinshed  holds  responsible  for  the  strategic  deception  in 
Gaultree  Forest.     Furthermore,  John  can  hardly  merit  Falstaff's 


M  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

censure  in  regard  to  wine  drinking.  Stowe  recounts  the  story  of  an 
affray  that  took  place  in  1410  between  some  citizens  and  two  of 
the  King's  sons  in  Eastcheap,  one  very  early  morning,  "after 
supper";  and  not  Henry,  but  John  and  Thomas,  were  the  royal 
revelers. 

The  contrast  between  Prince  Hal  and  Falstaff,  begun  in  the 
First  Part,  is  in  this  play  effectively  set  forth  in  the  guise  of  two 
kinds  of  development.  The  Prince  develops  upward;  the  knight 
develops  downward.  The  Falstaff  we  meet  and  laugh  with  in 
I  Henry  IV  is  a  lovable  old  rascal,  his  wit  shrewd  and  piercing, 
his  humour  abundant  and  contagious.  His  famous  "catechism  of 
honor**  is  like  the  bottle  of  sack  which  he  draws  in  lieu  of  a  pistol 
on  Shrewsbury  field — a  property  designed  mainly  for  humorous 
effect.  He  is  not  repulsive,  even  in  the  flights  of  merriment  that 
do  not  readily  lend  themselves  to  quotation;  vulgar  he  may  be  at 
times,  but  he  is  never  crass  or  revolting.  Were  we  to  see  no  more 
of  old  Jack  Falstaff  after  he  puts  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  makes 
one  more  promise  to  "leave  sack,  and  live  cleanly  as  a  nobleman 
should  do,"  we  should  be  justified  in  styling  him,  as  Brandes  has 
done,  "one  of  the  most  glorious  creations  that  ever  sprang  from 
a  poet's  brain." 

But  we  meet  Falstaff  again;  and  in  //  Henry  IV  we  find  him  a 
less  amiable  and  a  less  keen-witted  Falstaff.  We  still  laugh  with 
him,  it  is  true;  but  we  find  ourselves  also  laughing  at^him.  Is  it 
because  his  humour  cloys  upon  us.'^  Rather  is  it  because  his 
humour  is  thinner  and  grosser  and  less  spontaneous.  His  tongue 
continues  to  run  on  and  on — ^witness  his  chuckling  outbreak  to 
his  page  concerning  the  Prince's  smooth  cheek  (I.  ii.) — but  there 
is  here  less  substance  to  his  wit.  His  cleverness  is  on  the  wane. 
Now  and  again  it  flashes  out  in  its  old  time  brilliancy,  as  when, 
with  the  same  astounding  self-sufficiency  with  which  he  once 
narrated  his  heroism  at  Gadshill,  he  now  loftily  tells  the  Chief 
Justice  that  he  had  not  obeyed  the  summons  of  the  court  because 
he  was  so  advised  by  his  "learned  council  in  the  laws  of  this  land 
service,"  and  shortly  afterward,  having  escaped  prison  and  dis- 
grace, has  the  impudence  to  ask  the  magistrate  for  the  loan  of  a 
thousand  pounds;  but  the  general  impression  we  get  from  the  play 
is  that  the  gout  which  afflicts  his  great  toe  is  exerting  a  subtle 
influence  on  his  florid  fancy  and  his  stock  of  verbal  pyrotechnics. 
Old  Jack  Falstaff  is  hard  pressed  indeed  when  he  has  to  admit: 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  95 

"A  good  wit  will  make  use  of  anything:     I  will  turn  diseases  to 
commodity." 

It  is  evident  that  in  this  play  the  degeneration  of  Falstaff, 
mentally  and  morally,  is  well  advanced.  But  once  do  we  find 
him  in  company  with  his  former  boon  companion  the  Prince  of 
Wales;  and  that  rather  disgusting  scene  (II.  iv.)  does  not  in  any  way 
redound  to  Falstaff's  advantage.  Sir  John  finds  it  difficult  to 
explain  the  scurrilous  language  he  has  used  in  speaking  of  the  heir 
apparent,  and  his  explanation,  in  comparison  with  his  immortal 
coward-on-instinct  argument  (7  Henry  IV,  II.  iv.)  comes  off 
haltingly.  It  is  significant  that  the  foils  of  his  wit  in  II  Henry 
IV  are  not  the  agile  Prince  and  the  clever  Poins,  but  the  Hostess 
and  Mistress  Doll,  the  blustering  Pistol  and  the  silly  Justice 
Shallow,  A  verbal  swordsman  inevitably  gravitates  to  foemen 
worthy  of  his  steel. 

And,  just  as  plainly  as  we  see  Falstaff's  degeneration,  do  we 
see  the  Prince's  regeneration.  He  is  more  rarely  tlmn  formerly 
in  the  Boarshead  tavern,  and  less  in  harmony  with  the  environment 
of  Eastcheap.  In  the  First  Part  emphasis  was  laid  on  his  externall 
commonness;  in  the  Second  Part  stress  is  laid  rather  on  his  interna^ 
nobility.  Hal's  upward  development  is  perceptibly  advancing; 
in  this  play  he  stands  midway  between  the  madcap  Prince  of 
I  King  Henry  IV  and  the  ideal  monarch  and  man  of  action  of 
King  Henry  V. 

The  continued  contrast  between  Prince  Henry  and  Sir  John 
Falstaff  Shakespeare  brings  to  focus  in  the  fifth  scene  of  Act  V, 
where,  for  the  last  time,  the  young  King  and  his  old  companion 
meet  face  to  face.  Foul  and  travel-stained,  out  at  knees  and 
elbows,  the  fat  knight  and  his  frowsy  friends,  Bardolph  and  Pistol, 
take  their  stand  near  Westminster  Abbey.  The  coronation 
procession  approaches,  and  Falstaff  recognizes  the  famihar  face 
of  Prince  Hal.  But,  with  an  unwonted  sinking  of  the  heart,  he  sees 
that  the  madcap  Prince  is  strangely  altered;  dignity  and  grace 
have  set  their  stamp  upon  the  youthful  brow.  Unaccustomed 
forebodings  tugging  at  his  heart,  Falstaff  shouts  his  salutation: 
"God  save  thy  grace,  King  Hal!  My  royal  Hal!  .  .  .  My 
king!  My  Jove!  I  speak  to  thee,  my  heart!"  A  sudden  silence 
falls  upon  the  crowded  street;  and  then  the  young  King  speaks; 

I  know  thee  not,  old  man:  fall  to  thy  prayers; 
How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool  and  jester! 


96  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

To  what  extent  Shakespeare  has  here  transmuted  the  material 
at  hand  may  be  seen  from  this  excerpt  from  Hohnshed  (III.  543.) : 

"But  this  king  even  at  first  appointing  with  himself,  to  show  that 
in  his  person  princely  honors  should  change  public  manners,  he 
determined  to  put  on  him  the  shape  of  a  new  man.  For  whereas 
aforetime  he  had  made  himself  a  companion  unto  misruly  mates 
of  dissolute  order  and  life,  he  now  banished  them  all  from  his 
presence  (but  not  unrewarded,  or  else  unpref erred) ;  inhibiting 
them,  upon  a  great  pain,  not  to  approach,  lodge,  or  sojourn  within 
ten  miles  of  his  court  or  presence." 

Minor  contrasts,  for  which  Shakespeare  is  entirely  responsible, 
abound  in  the  play.  He  invents  the  third  scene  of  Act  III  and 
the  pleadings  of  Northumberland's  wife  and  daughter-in-law,  the 
better  to  show  the  hedging  father  of  the  impetuous  Hotspur  in 
contrast  with  the  daring  and  self  denying  Archbishop  Scroop. 
That  prelate's  speech  in  the  council  of  war  (I.  iii.)  embodies  a 
brief  presentation  of  some  of  the  contrasts  running  through  the 
historical  plays : 

What  trust  is  in  these  times  ? 
They  that,  when  Richard  lived,  would  have  him  die. 
Are  now  become  enamour'd  on  his  grave: 
Thou,  that  threw'st  dust  upon  his  goodly  head 
When  through  proud  London  he  came  sighing  on 
After  the  admired  heels  of  Bolingbroke, 
Criest  now  '*0  earth,  yield  us  that  king  again. 
And  take  thou  this!"     O  thoughts  of  men  accursed! 
Past  and  to  come  seems  best;  things  present,  worst. 

The  contrast  of  a  bishop  faring  forth  to  war,  above  all  to  civil 
war,  is  thus  indicated  in  the  lines  Shakespeare  gives  to  Westmore- 
land (IV.  i.): 

You,  lord  Archbishop, 
Whose  see  is  by  a  civil  peace  maintain'd. 
Whose  beard  the  silver  hand  of  peace  hath  touch'd, 
Whose  learning  and  good  letters  peace  hath  tutor'd. 
Whose  white  investments  figure  innocence. 
The  dove  and  very  blessed  spirit  of  peace, 
Wherefore  do  you  so  ill  translate  yourself 
Out  of  the  speech  of  peace  that  bears  such  grace. 
Into  the  harsh  and  boisterous  tongue  of  war; 
Turning  your  books  to  graves,  your  ink  to  blood, 
Your  pens  to  lances,  and  your  tongue  divine 
To  a  loud  trumpet  and  a  point  of  war? 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  97 

Finally,  Shakespeare  had  no  warrant  for  Falstaff's  comic 
opera  exploit  in  the  capture  of  Coleville  of  the  Dale  (IV.  iii.), 
which  is  faintly  reminiscent  of  the  contrast  secured  in  the  final 
act  of  the  First  Part  between  the  heroic  Hotspur  and  the  craven 
knight.  Coleville  is  simply  mentioned  by  Holinshed  (III.  530.) 
as  one  of  the  conspirators  beheaded  at  Durham. 


KING  HENRY  V 

In  King  Henry  V  we  have  the  crowning  play  of  the  Prince  Hal 
trilogy;  and,  as  is  eminently  fitting,  the  dominant  figure  is  the 
King.  Previously  we  have  received  our  dramatic  impressions  of 
Henry  from  seeing  him  form  with  Hotspur  a  contrast  of  rivalry 
and  with  Falstaff  a  contrast  of  development.  But  now  the  method 
of  presentation  is  changed.  The  former  Eastcheap  reveller  has 
become  not  only  a  good  man  and  a  wise  and  warlike  monarch, 
but  a  national  hero  whose  praises  must  be  sung  on  every  anni- 
versary of  Agincourt,  a  superman  whose  daring  and  indomitable 
spirit  flung  the  English  yoemen  over  the  walls  of  Harfleur.  In 
this  play  he  is  presented  to  us,  not  by  means  of  the  contrast  of 
conflict  or  the  contrast  of  character,  but  by  means  of  the  contrast 
inhering  in  supremacy.     He  dominates;  therefore  he  contrasts. 

At  the  same  time  we  cannot  afford  to  forget  that  an  adequate 
comprehension  of  the  dramatic  contrast  afforded  in  King  Henry 
V  depends  greatly  on  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  other  plays  of 
the  trilogy.  Nobody  ever  got  a  fair  conception  of  Falstaff  solely 
by  watching  his  cavortings  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor;  to  be 
appreciated  rightly  in  that  drama,  Falstaff  must  be  followed 
through  both  parts  of  King  Henry  IV.  Similarly,  we  do  not 
grasp  the  full  force  of  the  drama  of  King  Henry  V  until  we  see  it 
against  the  background  of  its  predecessors  in  the  Prince  Hal 
trilogy.  At  every  turn  the  pious  King  is  in  contrast  with  the 
seeming-impious  Prince. 

This  contrast  with  the  King  that  is  with  the  Prince  that  was  is 
stressed  by  Shakespeare  in  the  opening  scene  of  the  play.  The 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  the  Bishop  of  Ely  praise  him  at 
length  as  "full  of  grace  and  fair  regard,"  "a  true  lover  of  the  holy 
church."     Says  Canterbury: 

The  courses  of  his  youth  promised  it  not. 

The  breath  no  sooner  left  his  father's  body, 

But  that  his  wildness,  mortified  in  him, 

Seem'd  to  die,  too;  yea,  at  that  very  moment. 

Consideration  like  an  angel  came 

And  whipp'd  the  offending  Adam  out  of  him, 

Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise. 

To  envelope  and  contain  celestial  spirits. 

98 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  99 

The  prelate,  after  paying  a  glowing  tribute  to  the  King's  learning 
and  piety  and  valor  and  sagacity,  marvels  thereat — 

Since  his  addiction  was  to  courses  vain, 
His  companies  unlettered,  rude  and  shallow, 
His  hours  fiU'd  up  with  riots,  banquets,  sports. 
And  never  noted  in  him  any  study. 
Any  retirement,  any  sequestration 
From  open  haunts  and  popularity. 

Whereupon  moralizes  his  lordship  of  Ely : 

The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle. 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best 
Neighbour'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality: 
And  so  the  prince  obscured  his  contemplation 
Under  the  veil  of  wildness,  which,  no  doubt. 
Grew  like  the  summer  grass,  fastest  by  night, 
Unseen,  yet  crescive  in  his  faculty. 

The  device  here  employed  by  Shakespeare  has  since  become  a 
stock  dramaturgic  procedure.  A  group  of  village  maidens  in 
the  Way  Down  East  type  of  play  of  two  decades  ago  took  up  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  first  act  discussing  the  beauty,  the 
intelligence,  and  the  general  desirability  of  the  heroine.  The 
result  was  that,  when  one  of  the  group  ran  to  the  wobbly  white 
picket  fence  near  the  back  drop  and  shouted  excitedly,  "Here  she 
comes  now,"  the  audience — unless  it  happened  to  be  extremely 
sophisticated — sat  up  in  breathless  expectation.  The  entrance 
of  the  heroine  at  that  point  is  undeniably  dramatic — seriously  so 
if  she  squares  with  the  picture  of  her  drawn  by  her  admirers, 
comically  so  should  she  prove  at  all  points  its  antithesis.  In  the 
case  of  King  Henry  V  the  device  has  a  thorough  justification, 
for  the  audience  may  be  reasonably  expected  not  to  form  their 
conception  of  the  young  King  solely  from  what  the  bishops  say 
but  from  previous  knowledge  of  the  Prince  and  his  upward  develop- 
ment. The  prelates  in  that  first  scene  really  supplement  the 
work  of  the  chorus;  they  tell  us  that  which  we  ourselves  do  know. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  first  act  of  King  Henry  V  Shakespeare 
thumbs  his  Holinshed.  The  chronicle  he  follows  closely,  not 
omitting  the  fine  contrast  afforded  in  the  episode  of  the  tennis 
balls.  But  in  the  second  scene  of  Act  II  he  adds  to  the  dramatic 
effectiveness  of  the  conspirators'  condemnation  by  having  them 
unwittingly  name  their  own  doom.     Almost  entirely  original  is 


100  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

Henry's  condemnation  speech,  as  may  be  seen  on  comparing  it 
with  Holinshed's  version  (III.  548): 

"Having  thus  conspired  the  death  and  destruction  of  me,  which 
am  the  head  of  the  realm  and  governor  of  the  people,  it  may  be, 
no  doubt,  but  that  you  likewise  have  sworn  the  confusion  of  all 
that  are  here  with  me,  and  also  the  desolation  of  your  own  country. 
To  what  horror,  O  Lord,  for  any  true  English  heart  to  consider, 
that  such  an  execrable  iniquity  should  ever  so  bewrap  you,  as  for 
pleasing  of  a  foreign  enemy  to  imbrue  your  hands  in  our  blood, 
and  to  ruin  your  own  native  soil.  Revenge  herein  touching  my 
person  though  I  seek  not,  yet  for  the  safeguard  of  you,  my  dear 
friends,  and  for  due  preservation  of  all  sorts,  I  am  by  office  to 
cause  example  to  be  showed.  Get  ye  hence,  therefore,  ye  poor 
miserable  wretches,  to  the  receiving  of  your  just  reward,  wherein 
God's  majesty  give  you  grace  of  his  mercy  and  repentance  of  your 
heinous  offenses." 

This  pedestrian  prose  Shakespeare  transmutes  into  a  speech 
bristling  with  contrasts : 

You  would  have  sold  your  king  to  slaughter. 
His  princes  and  his  peers  to  servitude. 
His  subjects  to  oppression  and  contempt, 
And  his  whole  kingdom  into  desolation. 

Throughout  the  play  Shakespeare  thus  takes  the  baser  metal 
of  the  chronicler  and,  without  falsifying  the  underlying  truth, 
shapes  it  anew  in  the  alembic  of  his  own  personality.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  the  basis  he  found  in  Holinshed  (III.  55^.)  for  Henry's 
reply  to  Montjoy's  demand  to  surrender  (III.  vi.) : 

"Mine  intent  is  to  do  as  it  pleaseth  God.  I  will  not  seek 
your  master  at  this  time;  but,  if  he  or  his  seek  me,  I  will  meet 
them,  God  willing.  If  any  of  your  nation  attempt  once  to  stop  me 
in  my  journey  towards  Calais,  at  their  jeopardy  be  it;  and  yet 
wish  I  not  any  of  you  so  unadvised  as  to  be  the  occasion  that  I 
dye  your  tawny  ground  with  your  red  blood." 

The  tawny  ground  and  the  red  blood  Shakespeare  incorporated 
into  the  spirited  reply  he  has  the  English  King  fling  into  the 
herald's  teeth;  for  naught  else  here  was  he  indebted  to  Holinshed. 
The  speech  he  makes  lengthy — lengthy,  that  is,  as  compared  with 
the  speech  cited  by  Holinshed — and  therefore  important.  He 
permits  Henry  frankly  to  admit  to  his  enemies. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  10 1 

My  people  are  with  sickness  much  enfeebled, 
My  numbers  lessen'd,  and  those  few  I  have 
Almost  no  better  than  so  many  French. 

The  King  begs  God's  forgiveness  for  that  playful  bragging:  "This 
your  air  of  France,'*  he  explains  whimsically  to  Montjoy,  "hath 
blown  that  vice  in  me."     Then  he  continues: 

Go,  therefore,  tell  thy  master  here  I  am; 
My  ransom  is  this  frail  and  worthless  trunk, 
My  army  but  a  weak  and  sickly  guard; 
Yet,  God  before,  tell  him  we  will  come  on. 
Though  France  himself  and  such  another  neighbour 
Stand  in  our  way. 

And — in  a  way  the  most  typical  contrast  of  all — this  tattered 
leader  of  an  army  of  scarecrows,  never  forgetting  that  he  is  a  king, 
tosses  a  purse  to  the  gaily  attired  herald:  "There's  for  thy  labor, 
Montjoy." 

The  fourth  act  opens  with  an  indication  on  the  part  of  the 
chorus  of  the  contrast  between  the  two  camps,  where 

Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umber'd  face. 

Then  follows  "a  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night,"  and  we  have 
that  wonderfully  dramatic  scene  wherein  the  King,  disguised  as  a 
common  soldier,  passes  here  and  there  through  the  camp,  listens 
to  the  conversation  of  his  soldiers,  and  good  humoredly  picks  a 
quarrel  with  the  stolid  WiUiams.  For  this  scene,  as  well  as  for 
the  soliloquy  that  follows  it,  when  the  King,  never  so  awfully 
alone  as  now,  thinks  royal  thoughts  aloud,  there  is  no  warrant  in 
Holinshed. 

Again,  we  have  Holinshed's  prosaic  statements  concerning 
Montjoy 's  second  embassy  to  the  English  King  (III.  554.) : 

"Here  we  may  not  forget  how  the  French,  thus  in  their  joUity, 
sent  an  herald  to  King  Henry  to  inquire  what  ransom  he  would 
offer.  Whereunto  he  answered  that  within  two  or  three  hours  he 
hoped  it  would  so  happen  that  the  Frenchmen  should  be  glad  to 
common  rather  with  the  Englishmen  for  their  ransoms  than  the 
English  to  take  thought  for  their  deliverance,  promising  for  his 
own  part  that  his  dead  carcass  should  rather  be  a  prize  to  the 
Frenchmen  than  that  his  living  body  should  pay  any  ransom." 


102  CONTRAST  IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

Shakespeare  scented  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  this  passage, 
and  the  result  is  the  contrast-teeming  speech  (IV.  iii.)  beginning 
with 

Bid  them  achieve  me  and  then  sell  my  bones. 

One  remarkable  variation  rung  on  his  sources  by  Shakespeare 
deals  with  the  speech  made  by  Henry  before  the  battle  of  Agin- 
court.  "The  fewer  men,  the  greater  share  of  honour"  is  a  senti- 
ment taken  almost  bodily  from  Holinshed  (III.  553.);  but 
Shakespeare  carefully  avoided  anything  like  the  following  passages: 

*'If  God  of  his  clemency  do  favor  us  and  our  just  cause,  as  I 
trust  he  will,  we  shall  speed  well  enough.  But  let  no  man  ascribe 
victory  to  our  own  strength  and  might,  but  only  to  God*s  assist- 
ance; to  whom  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  worthily  have  cause  to 
give  thanks  therefore  .  .  .  but  if  we  should  fight  in  trust  of 
multitude  of  men,  and  so  get  the  victory  (our  minds  being  prone  to 
pride),  we  should  thereupon  perad venture  ascribe  the  victory  not 
so  much  to  the  gift  of  God  as  to  our  own  puissance,  and  thereby 
provoke  his  high  indignation  and  displeasure  against  us." 

In  the  great  St.  Crispin's  eve  speech  (IV.  iii.)  all  this  expression 
of  humility  and  resignation  is  curtailed  into  a  bluff  "God's  will!'^ 
and  a  curt  "God's  peace!"  Why  did  Shakespeare  make  the 
omission?  Certainly  not  because  he  considered  pious  sentiments 
in  the  mouth  of  Henry  out  of  character;  his  King  Henry  V  is 
depicted  as  a  whole-souled  and  reverential  monarch,  with  prayers 
coming  hot  from  the  heart  often  on  his  lips.  Manly  piety,  the 
devotional  spirit  that  makes  a  strong  man  stronger,  Shakespeare 
understood,  and  such  a  spirit  he  bestowed  upon  this  his  highest 
type  of  royalty.  But  on  this  particular  occasion,  just  before  the 
battle  of  Agincourt,  he  deliberately  eliminates  the  pious  speeches, 
put  into  the  King's  mouth  by  the  chronicler.     Why? 

I  think  the  only  satisfactory  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  the 
theory  of  dramatic  contrast.  An  ordinary  man  in  the  King's 
place  would  undoubtedly  have  prayed,  and  prayed  out  loud. 
The  prospective  battle  looked  like  a  slaughter  with  the  English 
enacting  the  role  of  victims.  The  odds  were  unmistakably  against 
them.  If  they  were  not  to  receive  the  help  of  heaven,  they  were 
certain  to  lose  the  day.  Such  is  what  an  ordinary  man  would 
have  thought,  such  is  what  Henry's  fellows  in  arms  did  actually 
think;  but  Shakespeare's  superman  is  made  of  sterner  stuff. 
Alone,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  the  King  has  indeed  raised  his. 


HISTORICAL   PLAYS  103 

hands  to  heaven;  but  now — he  buckles  on  his  sword.  The 
ordinary  man  would  have  thought  much  of  God  before  the  conflict 
and  would  have  forgotten  all  about  Him  after  the  victory.  Shake- 
speare's heroic  monarch  reserves  his  piety  and  his  devotion  for 
use  after  the  battle : 

O  God,  thy  arm  was  here; 
And  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  arm  alone, 
Ascribe  we  all     .     .     .     .     Take  it,  God, 
For  it  is  none  but  thine! 

Come  go  we  in  procession  to  the  village: 
And  be  it  death  proclaimed  through  our  host 
To  boast  of  this  or  take  that  praise  from  God 
Which  is  his  only. 

Do  we  all  holy  rites; 

Let  there  be  sung  Non  nobis  and  Te  Deum. 

Dr.  Johnson  maintains  that  the  great  defect  of  King  Henry  V 
is  "the  emptiness  and  narrowness  of  the  last  act.'*  In  a  way  the 
great  lexicographer  is  right.  That  last  act  is  narrow  and  is 
empty — in  itself.  And,  again,  if  we  were  to  assume  that  the  theme 
of  the  play  is  the  victories  of  Henry  V,  then  indeed  the  fifth  act 
shows  a  decided  falling  off  in  dramatic  efficiency.  But  that  act 
must  be  considered  in  the  first  place  as  an  integral  part  of  the  play, 
and  secondly  the  play  must  be  considered  as  a  dramatic  glorifica- 
tion of  an  English  King.  As  we  have  already  said,  King  Henry 
dominates  the  play;  he  must  perforce  dominate  the  last  act  of  it. 

The  greater  part  of  the  fifth  act  of  King  Henry  V  is  taken  up 
with  the  courtship  of  the  Princess  Katharine  by  the  English 
monarch.  That  scene  was  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  contrast. 
To  begin  with,  we  have  the  never-failing  theatricalism  of  a  blunder- 
ing use  of  language — the  Princess  talking  absurdly  inelegant 
Enghsh  and  the  King  talking  desperately  improper  French. 
Again,  we  have  the  comical  complication  that  the  course  of  true 
love  does  not  run  smooth  without  the  aid  of  an  interpreter.  Then 
there  is  the  contrast  between  the  courtly  and  very  young  princess 
— for  in  point  of  fact  Henry  had  already  unsuccessfully  tried  to 
marry  two  of  her  elder  sisters — and  the  bluff,  war-grimed  monarch. 
Those  contrasts  would  lend  the  scene  sufficient  dramatic  impor- 
tance to  hold  an  audience. 


104  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

But  the  major  contrast  in  the  courtship  scene  centers  in  the 
King.  Here  we  have  still  another  side  of  his  varied  character. 
This  man,  last  seen  falling  devoutly  on  his  knees  after  gaining  a 
brilliant  victory,  now  perplexedly  scratches  his  head  and  sweats 
for  it  in  his  effort  to  surmount  a  linguistic  obstacle  and  tell  a 
princess  that  he  loves  her.  And  this  is  the  Prince  Hal  of  East- 
cheap,  the  *'Harry  Le  Roy"  who  accepted  Williams'  gage,  the 
King  Henry  who  won  the  field  of  Agincourt.  "We  see  him," 
says  Gervinus, "  "in  a  short  time  alternate  between  the  most 
different  emotions  and  positions,  ever  the  same  master  over 
himself,  or  we  may  rather  say,  over  the  opportunity  and  the 
matter  which  lie  for  the  moment  before  him." 

Because  King  Henry  thus  dominates  the  play,  the  minor 
contrasts  are  here  relatively  few.  We  have  a  fleeting,  second- 
hand vision  of  the  dying  Falstaff  plucking  at  the  sheets  and 
babbling  of  green  fields;  we  have  the  episode  of  Pistol's  ridiculous 
capture  of  the  French  soldier  (IV.  iv.)  which  Shakespeare  found 
in  The  Famous  Victories  of  Henry  Fifth,  and  materially  bettered 
in  his  conveyance  thereof;  we  have  our  old  acquaintances,  Bar- 
dolph  and  Mistress  Quickly,  and  Corporal  Nym  and  the  boy — a 
boy  whose  preternatural  wisdom  sets  off  the  stupidity  of  the  other 
members  of  the  group.  Most  distinctively,  however,  we  have 
Fluellen  the  W^elshman,  Macmorris  the  Irishman,  and  Jamy  the 
Scotsman,  each  of  them  contrasting  deliciously  with  the  others. 
The  obvious  purpose  of  the  few  scenes  which  lead  us  within  the 
enemy's  lines  is  to  enable  us  to  form  more  vividly  and  in  greater 
detail  the  contrast  between  the  two  camps. 


^^  Shakespeare  Commentaries,  vol.  I. 


XI. 
KING  HENRY  VIII 

On  entering  upon  a  study  of  King  Henry  VIII  we  must  remem- 
ber that  we  have  here  a  drama  for  which  Shakespeare  alone  does 
not  stand  responsible.  In  1758  the  question  of  the  Shakespearean 
authorship  of  the  play  was  raised  by  Roderick  (in  Edward*s 
Canons  of  Criticism),  who  called  attention  to  three  metrical 
peculiarities  in  portions  of  King  Henry  VIII  that  are  not  found  in 
other  Shakespearean  plays.  Almost  a  century  later  James 
Spedding  in  his  article  on  Who  Wrote  Shakespeare* s  Henry  VIII?  " 
presented  a  careful  and  scholarly  discussion  of  the  problem;  and 
his  views  are  today  accepted  almost  without  cavil.  His  study  is 
really  one  of  the  high  water  marks  of  English  literary  criticism, 
for  it  is  neither  merely  impressionistic  nor  solely  scientific,  but 
represents  a  happy  union  of  the  two  styles  of  analysis.  The 
impression  made  upon  him  by  an  alert  reading  of  portions  of  the 
play  is  thus  described  by  Spedding: 

"The  opening  of  the  play  seemed  to  have  the  full  stamp  of 
Shakespeare,  in  his  latest  manner:  the  same  close-packed  expres- 
sion; the  same  life,  and  reality,  and  freshness;  the  same  rapid  and 
abrupt  turnings  of  thought,  so  quick  that  language  can  hardly 
follow  fast  enough;  the  same  impatient  activity  of  intellect  and 
fancy,  which  having  once  disclosed  an  idea  cannot  wait  to  work 
it  orderly  out;  the  same  daring  confidence  in  the  resources  of 
language,  which  plunges  headlong  into  a  sentence  without  knowing 
how  it  is  to  come  forth;  the  same  careless  metre  which  disdains  to 
produce  its  harmonious  effects  by  the  ordinary  devices,  yet  is 
evidently  subject  to  a  master  of  harmony;  the  same  entire  freedom 
from  book-language  and  commonplace;  all  the  qualities,  in  short, 
which  distinguish  the  magical  hand  which  has  never  yet  been 
successfully  imitated." 

But,  Spedding  goes  on  to  say,  in  other  portions  of  the  play  the 
Shakespearean  characteristics  he  found  markedly  absent;  and, 
profiting  by  a  hint  from  Tennyson,  "a  man  of  first  rate  judgment 
on  such  a  point,"  he  concluded  that  the  non-Shakespearean 
portions  of   King  Henry  VIII  are  decidedly  in  the  manner  of 


^^Gentleman's  Magazine,  1850. 

105 


106  CONTRAST  IN  SHAKESPEARE' S 

John  Fletcher.  The  same  conclusion  was  almost  simultaneously 
reached  by  Hickson,  "^^  and  was  subsequently  confirmed  after  two 
series  of  metrical  tests  by  Fleay  and  Abbott  {Shakespearean 
Grammar),  Robert  Boyle ^^  urged  the  possibility  of  Massinger's 
being  in  part  responsible  for  the  play,  and  some  recent  critics  have 
professed  to  discover  therein  the  work  of  a  third  hand;  but — 
excepting  some  eminent  heretics,  including  Singer,  Knight,  Ward, 
and  Ulrici — the  mass  of  critical  opinion  does  not  materially  deviate 
from  the  views  set  forth  nearly  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago  by 
Spedding. 

We  are  justified,  therefore,  in  assuming  the  fact  of  collaboration 
in  King  Henry  VIII.  And  such  being  the  case,  to  what  extent 
are  we  warranted  in  including  the  play  in  a  study  of  Shakespeare's 
dramaturgic  procedure?  We  shall  find  our  bearings  more  readily 
by  recalling  that  there  are  two  sorts  of  collaboration,  for  a  splendid 
differentiation  between  which  we  are  indebted  to  Professor 
Matthews : 

"First  of  all,  there  is  the  true  collaboration,  that  of  Erckmann- 
Chatrian  and  of  Augier  and  Sandeau,  in  which  the  pair  of  authors 
really  labor  in  common,  inventing  and  creating  in  consultation. 
They  make  the  plot  together,  they  develop  the  characters,  and 
they  assign  to  one  another  the  more  mechanical  task  of  the  actual 
writing.  Then  there  is  a  second  kind  of  collaboration,  falsely  so 
called,  in  which  the  two  writers  do  not  consult,  and  may  not  even 
meet  for  consultation,  but  in  which  one  of  them  merely  revises  or 
amplifies  or  modifies  what  the  other  has  already  written,  and  in 
this  case  there  is  not  a  genuine  partnership.  And  under  these 
circumstances  it  is  sometimes  possible  to  separate  the  respective 
shares  of  the  two  writers  and  to  identify  what  the  reviser  has 
added  to  the  work  of  the  inventor.  He  may  have  made  it  better 
or  he  may  have  made  it  worse,  but  in  neither  case  did  he  create  it 
originally.  There  has  been  only  a  mechanical  mixture  of  their 
several  contributions  and  not  a  chemical  union.  But  in  true 
collaboration  there  is  a  chemical  union  of  the  several  contributions, 
and  this  forbids  any  successful  effort  to  identify  the  respective 
shares  of  the  several  collaborators."  ** 


20  Notes  and  Queries,  II.  198;  III.  33. 

'1  Transactions  of  the  New  Shakespeare  Society,  1880-1885. 

22  Shakespeare  as  a  Playright,  pp.  347-8. 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  107 

Professor  Matthews  finds  in  King  Henry  VIII  such  a  "chemical 
union"  of  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  and  is  therefore  incapacitated 
from  identifying  their  respective  portions.  But  in  this  realm  of 
conjecture  the  opposite  view  seems  to  me  more  credible;  and  it  has 
the  weight  of  Spedding's  investigation  behind  it.  Therefore  the 
problem  of  collaboration  is  an  important  problem  in  any  discussion 
of  King  Henry  VIII.  It  was  a  relatively  unimportant  issue  in 
our  investigation  of  King  Henry  VI,  for  in  those  three  plays  Shake- 
speare, to  whatever  extent  he  borrowed  from  and  was  influenced 
by  The  True  Contention  and  older  plays,  had  the  last  word  in  defin- 
ing the  ultimate  form  which  the  plays  would  take;  his  "collabora- 
tors" were  certainly  not  at  his  elbow  suggesting  elisions  and 
protesting  against  alterations.  But  in  the  case  of  King  Henry 
VIII  we  have  a  play  which  was  obviously  begun  by  Shakespeare 
and  finished  by  Fletcher — the  Shakespearean  portions  not  extend- 
ing beyond  the  third  act.  Here,  therefore,  Fletcher,  and  not 
Shakespeare,  had  the  last  word;  and  here,  if  we  wish  to  examine 
the  play  with  reference  to  Shakespeare's  use  of  his  historical 
material,  we  must  confine  ourselves  to  the  admittedly  Shake- 
spearean portions. 

A  reading  of  the  first  half  of  the  play  must  convince  us  that  here 
Shakespeare  designed  to  set  three  characters  in  effective  contrast — 
the  King,  Queen  Katharine,  and  Cardinal  Wolsey.  This  he  could 
have  done  without  sacrificing  historic  truth  as  that  truth  was 
embodied  in  the  leading  sources  which  he  employed — again  Hall 
and  Holinshed,  possibly  George  Cavendish's  Life  of  Wolsey  which 
was  circulated  in  manuscript  form  in  Shakespeare's  day,  and 
possibly  also  Fox's  Acts  and  Monuments  of  the  Church,  a  work 
which  was  utilized  by  Fletcher  for  the  fifth  act.  This,  indeed,  he 
did  do,  until  that  point  is  reached  where  the  original  mood  of  the 
play  changes,  and  what  started  out  as  a  condemnation  of  Henry,  a 
beatification  of  Katharine,  and  a  swift  and  pagent-like  display  of 
Wolsey's  greatness  and  fall,  becomes  a  vague,  weak,  uncertain 
succession  of  shifting  scenes  and  a  glorification  of  the  infant 
Queen  Elizabeth.  King  Henry  VIII  is  not  the  finest  of  the 
English  historical  plays,  not,  as  is  sometimes  said,  because  it  has 
too  much  pageantry,  but  because  it  has  too  little  of  sustained 
contrast. 

Certainly,  the  play  begins  impressively.  We  hear  the  story 
of  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold;  then  comes  a  natural  transition 


108  CONTRAST   IN   SHAKESPEARE* S 

to  the  subject  of  the  Cardinal;  and  then  appears  the  lordly  Wolsey 
himself.  Here  is  one  of  Shakespeare's  greatest  dramaturgical 
triumphs.  Wolsey  appears  but  for  a  moment,  he  says  scarcely 
anything;  yet  he  dominates  the  scene.  In  such  stage  pictures 
Shakespeare  truly  dramatized  history;  that  is,  without  being 
false  to  the  story  of  the  past,  he  shredded  that  story  of  its  super- 
fluous men  and  events  and  set  its  essentials  in  contrast  one  with 
another.  The  characters  in  the  first  scene  of  the  play  he  found 
in  Holinshed;  he  found,  too,  many  of  the  sentiments  he  puts  into 
their  mouths;  but  the  essentially  dramatic  situation,  secured  by 
the  simple  device  of  having  the  much  talked  of  Wolsey  pass 
across  the  stage  and  a  little  later  the  ominous  net  fall  upon  Buck- 
ingham, is  his  own  invention — an  egg  easy  enough  to  make  stand 
upright  once  the  thing  has  been  done. 

The  three-cornered  contrast  in  King  Henry  VIII  would  not  be 
complete  without  Queen  Katharine,  so  Shakespeare  introduces 
her  in  the  second  scene  of  Act  I,  where  she  intercedes  for  the  people 
against  the  exactions  being  made  by  Wolsey  in  the  King's  name. 
Thus  the  three  contrasting  characters  are  set  in  one  compact 
group.  This  is  a  clear  deviation  from  Hall  and  Holinshed  who, 
while  taking  account  of  the  exactions,  have  absolutely  nothing  to 
say  concerning  any  interference  on  the  part  of  the  Queen.  The 
device  is  a  felicitous  stroke  made  solely  in  the  interests  of  dramatic 
contrast. 

Another  palpably  invented  scene  we  have  in  the  third  scene 
of  Act  II  wherein  Anne  BuUen  converses  with  an  old  lady  of  the 
court.  Ann  Bullen  is  in  contrast,  naturally  enough,  with  Queen 
Katharine;  and  that  we  may  see  what  manner  of  person  Anne 
Bullen  is,  Shakespeare  puts  her  in  contrast  with  a  fictitious 
character — an  old  lady  who  contrasts  with  Anne's  youth  and 
beauty.  The  scene,  for  all  its  brevity,  is  a  subtle  bit  of  character 
portraiture.  "How  you  do  talk!"  exclaims  the  demure  maid  of 
honor.  *T  swear  again  I  would  not  be  a  queen  for  all  the  world.'* 
Subsequent  events  showed  that  here  the  lady  protests  too  much. 

Building  prodigally  upon  the  meager  details  afforded  him  by 
his  sources,  Shakespeare  constructed  that  splendid  scene,  shim- 
mering with  contrasts,  in  which  the  King  reveals  his  knowledge 
of  Wolsey's  great  possessions  (III.  ii.).  This,  for  the  Cardinal, 
is  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  the  contrast  of  the  prelate's 
perturbation  with  the  monarch's  studious  composure  is  graphically 


HISTORICAL   PLATS  109 

outlined  in  the  conversation  of  the  attendants,  in  the  brief,  over- 
devoted  protestations  of  Wolsey,  in  the  envenomed  reminiscences 
of  Henry  who  concludes  with : 

Read  o'er  this ; 

And  after,  this:  and  then  to  breakfast  with 

What  appetite  you  have. 

In  describing  (II.  iv.)  the  Queen's  appeal  and  her  repudiation 
of  Wolsey,  Shakespeare  found  little  to  change  in  HoHnshed. 
The  scene  was  waiting  for  him,  ready  made.  And  yet  we  have 
here  a  striking  instance  of  Shakespeare's  method,  observable 
throughout  the  English  historical  plays,  of  adopting  his  sources. 
His  method  took  generally  two  forms:  He  followed  his  original 
closely,  sometimes  taking  entire  clauses  word  for  word,  leaving 
out  no  important  idea  and  introducing  no  innovation;  and  again 
he  regarded  the  text  of  the  chronicle  as  a  fit  subject  freely  to 
paraphrase  and  expand,  producing  a  result  very  different  in  form 
from  the  original  but  singularly  true  to  its  spirit. 

Both  these  phases  of  the  dramatist's  method  we  have  in  this 
scene.  How  closely  he  could,  on  occasion,  adhere  to  his  source  we 
see  by  a  comparison  with  the  appeal  of  Katharine  as  given  by 
Shakespeare  with  the  following  account  of  it  from  Holinshed 
(III.  907.): 

**I  desire  you  to  do  me  justice  and  right,  and  take  some  pity 
upon  me,  for  I  am  a  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger,  born  out  of 
your  dominion,  having  here  no  indifferent  counsel  and  no  assurance 
of  friendship.  Alas,  sir,  in  what  have  I  offended  you,  or  what 
occasion  of  displeasure  have  I  showed  you,  intending  thus  to 
put  me  from  you  after  this  sort  ?  I  take  God  to  my  judge,  I  have 
been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife,  ever  conformable  to  your 
will  and  pleasure;  that  never  contraried  or  gainsaid  anything 
thereof,  and,  being  always  contented  with  all  things  wherein  you 
had  any  dehght,  whether  Uttle  or  much,  without  grudge  or  dis- 
pleasure, I  loved  for  your  sake  all  them  whom  you  loved,  whether 
they  were  my  friends  or  enemies.  I  have  been  your  wife  these 
twenty  years  and  more,  and  you  have  had  by  me  divers  children. 
.  .  .  The  King,  your  father,  was  in  his  time  of  excellent  wit, 
and  the  king  of  Spain,  my  father,  Ferdinando,  was  reckoned  one 
of  the  wisest  princes  that  reigned  in  Spain  many  years  before. 
It  is  not  to  be  doubted  but  that  they  had  gathered  as  wise  counsel- 
lors unto  them  of  every  realm  as  to  their  wisdoms  they  thought 


110  CONTRAST   IN  SHAKESPEARE's 

meet,  who  deemed  the  marriage  between  you  and  me  good  and 
lawful.  Wherefore,  I  humbly  desire  you  to  spare  me  until  I  may 
know  what  counsel  my  friends  in  Spain  will  advertise  me  to  take, 
and,  if  you  will  not,  then  your  pleasure  be  fulfilled." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  second  phase  of  Shakespeare's  method  of 
adopting  his  sources — ^that  of  bringing  into  clearer  light  the  con- 
trasts of  character — is  to  be  observed  by  comparing  Queen  Katha- 
rine's speech  beginning,  "I  will,  when  you  are  humble,"  with 
Holinshed's  account  told  in  the  third  person: 

"Here  is  to  be  noted  that  the  queen  in  the  presence  of  the  whole 
court  most  grievously  accused  the  cardinal  of  untruth,  deceit, 
wickedness,  and  malice;  which  had  sown  dissention  between  her 
and  the  king,  her  husband :  and  therefore  openly  protested  that  she 
did  utterly  abhor,  refuse,  and  forsake  such  a  judge  as  was  not  only 
a  most  malicious  enemy  to  her  but  also  a  manifest  adversary  to 
all  right  and  justice;  and  therewith  she  did  appeal  unto  the  Pope, 
committing  her  whole  cause  to  be  judged  of  him." 

In  his  deviation  from  as  well  as  in  his  adherence  to  his  sources  in 
King  Henry  VIII  Shakespeare  continues  to  carry  into  execution 
the  principles  of  dramatic  contrast.  Had  he  succeeded  in  handing 
over  to  Fletcher,  not  only  the  unfinished  manuscript  of  the  play, 
but  likewise  his  conception  of  the  underlying  contrast,  and  withal 
something  of  his  masterly  command  of  his  resources,  there  is 
little  doubt  that  King  Henry  VIII  would  dominate  the  entire 
group  of  English  historical  plays.  As  it  stands  it  is  splendid  in  its 
promises — ^promises  unfulfilled. 


XII. 
SUMMARY  AND  CONCLUSION 

In  the  course  of  this  monograph  we  have  investigated,  as  briefly 
as  is  consonant  with  our  general  purpose,  the  principal  theories 
of  dramatic  construction  which  have  been  suggested  by  critics  of 
the  theater  as  expositions  of  what  constitutes  the  essence  and 
fundamental  notion  of  the  dramatic.  The  theory  of  the  "classical** 
unities,  concerned  with  the  external  forms  of  the  drama;  the 
volitional  conflict  theory,  concerned  with  the  psychology  of  the 
drama;  the  theories  of  passion  in  action  and  crises,  which  touch 
upon  both  the  internals  and  the  externals  of  the  drama,  have  all 
been  examined  in  their  relation  to  representative  plays  of  the  past 
and  of  the  present,  and  all  of  them  have  been  found  inadequate. 
The  theory  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  which  suggests  internal  contrast 
embodied  in  external  contrast  as  the  true  and  adequate  differentia 
of  the  drama,  has  been  applied  to  a  large  variety  of  the  plays,  and 
has  not  been  found  wanting. 

A  specific  and  detailed  application  of  the  theory  of  contrast 
to  a  group  of  ten  Shakespearean  plays  seems  to  warrant  us  in 
assuming  that,  certainly  in  so  far  as  those  ten  plays  are  concerned, 
the  notion  of  contrast  was  the  guiding  principle  of  the  dramatist  in 
selecting  and  shaping  this  material.  We  have  seen  that  Shake- 
speare, in  composing  the  English  historical  plays,  in  many  instances 
deviated  from  his  sources;  and  the  result  of  our  study  is  the 
impression,  growing  stronger  and  stronger  as  the  investigation 
progressed,  that  the  theory  of  contrast  offers  the  only  reasonable 
and  consistent  explanation  of  Shakespeare*s  manipulation  of  his 
materials;  that  he  sensed  the  dramatic  value  of  contrast  early  in 
his  career  as  a  dramatist  and  that  he  used  it  more  and  more  effec- 
tively as  he  grew  in  knowledge  of  life,  mastery  of  expression,  and 
command  of  his  technical  resources. 

One  group  of  variations,  in  number  very  considerable,  has  been 
instanced  but  rarely  in  the  course  of  our  investigations.  That 
group  consists  of  chronological  divergences.  Shakespeare  juggled 
dates  ruthlessly.  After  making  a  liberal  allowance  for  such  chro- 
nological variations  as  are  due  to  carelessness  or  misconception  on 
the  part  of  the  dramatist,  it  is  evident  that  for  the  most  part 
when  Shakespeare  disagreed  with  his  sources  regarding  dates,  he 

111 


112  CONTRAST  IN   SHAKESPEARE's 

was  prompted  by  a  sense  of  the  dramatic  value  of  contrast.  The 
operation  known  in  the  moving  picture  art  as  "speeding  the  film'* 
— compressing  into  an  hour  the  events  of  a  day  and  into  a  day  the 
events  of  a  year — has  the  sanction  of  the  usage  of  many  other 
dramatists  besides  Shakespeare;  and  the  reason  for  its  vogue 
seems  to  be  that  it  affords  unparalleled  opportunities  for  the  setting 
forth  of  contrasts.  Instead  of  showing  things  as  they  ordinarily 
happen  in  life,  in  succession  measured  by  the  passing  of  time,  the 
dramatist  endeavors  to  show  things  happening  either  synchro- 
nously or  in  unmeasured  succession.  Instead  of  showing  his  pictures 
of  men  and  manners  in  a  series  of  dissolving  views,  he  strives, 
whenever  practicable,  to  exhibit  his  pictures  side  by  side  and  at 
the  same  time,  or  else  in  a  succession  so  quick  and  abrupt  as  to 
convey  the  impression  of  their  being  almost  coincident. 

It  may  be  well  to  add  here,  the  better  to  preclude  the  possibility 
of  misconception,  that  our  study  of  Shakespeare's  manipulation 
of  his  sources  in  the  English  historical  plays  has  not  been  designed 
to  support  the  contention  that  the  dramatist  had  a  conscious  and 
clearly  defined  theory  of  dramatic  contrast  or  that,  when  he  de- 
parted from  his  sources,  he  said  to  himself,  "Go  to,  I  shall  now  build 
a  scene  founded  on  the  contrasts  existing  between  men  and  men 
and  things  and  things."  To  what  extent  Shakespeare  wrought 
consciously  in  building  up  his  contrasts  in  the  historical  plays  is  a 
question  that  must  perforce  remain  untouched;  it  may  be  an  inter- 
esting field  for  conjecture,  but  as  such  is  quite  outside  the  scope 
of  the  present  study.  He  may  have  aimed  at  contrast  consciously; 
he  may  have  achieved  contrast  intuitively;  he  may  have  sensed 
contrast  sometimes  deliberately  and  sometimes  subconsciously. 
We  must  be  content  with  the  fact  that,  quite  irrespective  of  the 
subjective  attitude  of  the  dramatist,  contrast  was  the  guiding 
principle  of  Shakespeare  in  his  variations  from  his  sources  in  the 
English  historical  plays. 

Furthermore,  while  finding  in  the  course  of  this  investigation 
the  inadequacy  of  certain  theories  of  the  theater — some  of  them 
truly  luminous  and  all  of  them  worthy  of  respect — we  are  very  far 
from  implying  that  such  theories  have  ceased  to  be,  within  certain 
set  limits,  true  and  vital.  All  that  we  insist  upon  is  that  those 
theories  do  not  give  a  satisfying  answer  to  the  fundamental 
question:  What  constitutes  the  essence  of  the  dramatic?  Con- 
trast, as  we  have  discovered,  is  the  only  adequate  answer;  but 


HISTORICAL  PLATS  118 

often  it  is  contrast  presented  in  action,  or  contrast  shown  through 
the  medium  of  human  passion,  or  contrast  suggested  by  a  series  of 
crises,  or  contrast  taking  the  form  of  a  voHtional  conflict.  Not 
one  of  those  theories  has  the  same  depth  and  scope  as  the  theory 
of  contrast;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  not  one  of  them  can  the  student 
of  the  drama  afford  to  ignore.  Even  the  unities  of  time  and  place 
represent  a  suggestive  principle  to  the  budding  dramatist,  a  prin- 
ciple which  often  he  will  find  it  helpful  to  embrace;  all  he  need 
remember  is  that  good  plays  have  been  constructed  in  the  past  in 
defiance  of  the  "classical"  unities,  and  good  plays  of  today  may 
or  may  not  ignore  them  and  yet  be  none  the  less — and  none  the 
more — ^good  plays. 


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Bab,  Julius,  Der    Mensch  auf  der  BUhne:     Eine  Dramaturgic  fUr  Schau- 
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116  CONTRAST  IN  SHAKESPEARE*  S 

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Buckley,  Theodore,  The  Poetics  of  Aristotle.     London,  1883. 

BuLTHAUPT,  Heinrich,  Dramaturgic  des  Schauspiels.     Leipzig,  1899. 

Butcher,  H.  S.,  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art.     London,  1912. 

Castelvetro,  Lodovico,  Opere  varie  eritiche.     Berna,  1727. 

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CiNTHio,  GiRALDi,  Scritti  Estetici.     (2  vols.)     Milano,  1864. 

Cook,  Albert  S.,  The  Art  of  Poetry.     (Containing  the  metrical  essays  of 
Horace,  Vida,  and  Boileau.)     Boston,  1892. 

Corneille.  Pierre,  CEuvres  completes.     Paris,  1889. 

CEuvres  des  deux  Corneille,  accompagn^es  de  notices 
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Croll,  Morris  W.,  The  Works  of  Fulke  Greville.     Philadelphia,  1903. 

Delaporte,  p.  v.,  L'Art  Po^tique  de  Boileau,  comments  par  Boileau  et  par 
ses  Contemporains.     (3  vols.)     Lille,  1888. 

Dryden,  John,  Dramatic  Essays.     Everyman  edition.     London,     n.  d. 

Ebert,  Adolph,  Entwickelungsgeschichte  der  franzosischen  Tragodie,  vor- 
nehmlich  in  16  Jahrhundert.     Gotha,  1856. 

Einstein,  Lewis,  The  Italian  Renaissance  in  England.     New  York,  1902. 

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Gould,  George,  The   Greek   Plays  in  Their   Relations   to   the   Dramatic 
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Lessing,  G.  E.,  Hamburgische  Dramaturgic.     Stuttgart,  1893. 

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Matthews,  Brander,  The  Development  of  the  Drama.     New  York,  1903. 
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Perger,  Arnulf,  System  der  dramatischen  Technik,  mit  besonderer  Unter- 
suchung  von  Grabbes  Drama.     Berlin,  1909. 

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118  CONTRAST  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S 

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1886. 

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Freiburg,  1910. 


LIFE 

Brother  Zachary  Leo  (Francis  Gallagher  Meehan)  was  born  in 
San  Francisco,  California,  in  1881.  After  completing  the  courses 
prescribed  in  the  Novitiate  and  Normal  School  of  the  Brothers 
of  the  Christian  Schools  at  Martinez,  California,  he  made  his 
collegiate  studies  and  received  from  St.  Mary's  College,  Oakland, 
CaHfornia,  the  degrees  of  A.  B.  in  1903  and  M.  A.  in  1908. 

As  a  member  of  the  Institute  of  the  Brothers  of  the  Christian 
Schools  he  has  occupied  the  following  positions:  Instructor  in 
English,  Sacred  Heart  College,  San  Francisco,  1903-1905;  Head  of 
the  Department  of  English  and  History,  ibid.,  1905-1908;  Professor 
of  English,  St.  Mary's  College,  Oakland,  California,  1908-.  . .  . ; 
Dean  of  the  School  of  Arts  and  Letters,  ibid.,  1911- 

The  academic  year  of  1914-1915  he  has  spent  in  graduate  study 
and  research  at  the  Catholic  University  of  America,  Washington, 
D.  C,  following  courses  under  Dr.  P.  J.  Lennox,  Dr.  Edward  A. 
Pace,  Dr.  Thomas  E.  Shields,  and  Dr.  Francis  J.  Hemelt.  He  is 
happy  to  have  this  occasion  to  express  his  appreciation  of  the 
kindly  interest  manifested  in  his  studies  by  numerous  members  of 
the  teaching  institute  to  which  he  belongs  and  by  the  instructors 
who  have  so  materially  aided  him  during  his  stay  at  the  Catholic 
University.  In  particular,  he  wishes  to  record  his  deep  indebted- 
ness to  Dr.  Lennox,  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Litera- 
ture. 


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